The Mists of Morthal
by Hanyolo
Summary: Something sinister stalks the marshes of Hjallmarch hold, setting the denizens of her ramshackle capital at each others' throats. Their best hope may be a washed-up hero, a relic of an age long past, desperate to hide from his legacy. The Mists of Morthal conceal much that has been lost to Man and Mer - much that is best left forgotten. Rated T for now, subject to change. Ch4 up!
1. The Dead Girl

1

Their argument quickly devolved into a nasty spectacle, toxic and tortured in the way only a lover's quarrel could be. Harsh words grew into rousing epithets, culminating in a physical outburst directed moreso at the tableware than each other. Soren had to clean up the mess they made: shattered glassware, utensils strewn akimbo, an overturned plate that sent blackened potatoes and a turkey leg rolling across the floor.

Soren shrunk away as the red-haired woman broke off the confrontation, striding across the room and out the door with a look that was equal parts determination and spite plastered to her fair features. He swallowed uncomfortably as she exited - the misty evening enveloped her short and slender form in the blink of an eye - and turned to the broken goblet that she had left behind. The wine had begun to pool on the uneven floorboards, crimson like blood draining from a butchered pig.

The man she left behind stayed put. After a moment, he walked over to the bar and pulled up a stool on which to stew in silence. He ordered himself a brandy; despite the earlier outburst, the Innkeep, a Redguard woman named Jonna, did not shirk his request. The Moorside Inn could hardly stand to turn away paying customers, no matter their disposition.

After a long moment the other inhabitants of the bar turned back to their drinks and resumed their tired conversations. The tension in the air slowly began to abate; the bard in the corner resumed his pitchy ballad. Soren circled around the room, exchanging empty mugs for full ones, accepting reluctant offers of hard-earned coin. All the while he watched the man at the bar from the corner of his eye: he stood out like an Orc in a Colovian bathhouse.

He was middle-aged, tallish with Nordic features. A pair of green eyes peeked out from sunken pits in a gaunt face, steadily clouding over as more drink disappeared into the tersed, slitlike mouth that simmered under his slender nose. He kept his dirty-blonde hair pulled back in a low, loose half-tail; the short, unkempt beard that wrapped around his slightly crooked jaw framed his face quite well. Perhaps half a decade ago his features might have exhibited some boyish charm, but the stoicism that had since replaced it hinted as some past trauma. It was a typical trait among veterans, Soren had observed, and Skyrim did not lack for their kind.

He wore a simple scaled coat that descended to his knees: behind the dirt and the grime Soren could barely make out a dark, forgotten shade of blue glinting off the tiny metal plates. Streaks of mud adorned his faded leather boots and trousers, both of which were reinforced with strips of beaten steel. At his side, a slender sword rested against the bar, secured in a scuffed leather scabbard and looped hastily in his sword belt. The hilt was wrapped in shiny black leather, its sturdy crossguard carved with flowing nordic symbols; a small sapphire, set in the center of the cross, glinted in the dim light.

One by one the regulars of the Moorside Inn finished their drinks and emptied into the night. The candles burnt low in their sconces, their retreating light giving way to a sleepy miasma. Even the bard had abated, relinquishing his futile efforts to win himself more generous tips. His ears finally spared the unpleasant ruckus, Soren had to double his efforts in resisting the urge to sit down and nod off.

Soon, only the stranger remained. He had drained drink after drink, slowly but steadily. Soren was old enough to recognize that he was drinking with a purpose.

"You want a room, stranger?" Jonna asked. She was a foreigner, unlike Soren, but most found her rough-hewn and dependable in a distinctly Nordic fashion; she was well-liked in their small community.

The man mumbled in the negative and withdrew his coinpurse to pay for his lengthy procession of drinks. He fumbled with the catch, swore, and in a fit of annoyance overturned the bag, leaving a small pile of mismatched coins on the counter. Jonna sifted through them, pursed her lips, then swept them all into her apron.

"All of them? Really?" the man grunted. He fixed a glare on the Innkeep that looked more confused than annoyed.

"You're short a few, in fact," Jonna replied, "But I'll let it slide because of that tongue-lashing you caught earlier."

The man grunted and tried to stand, promptly making the true extent of his intoxication clear. He stumbled into a nearby table, knocked over a few chairs, and would have ended up on his arse had not Soren rushed over to steady him. Though he was taller than Soren, his frame was lean and wiry, easy to support. The man wrapped one arm around him and grasped at Soren's apron.

"Kyne's tits," he groaned, holding his head with his free hand. "Where's my sword?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, fool," Jonna replied, raising her brows, "I would have cut you off far earlier had I known the way you handle your liquor."

She nodded to Soren. "Put him in the corner room - he can sleep it off. Tomorrow we'll see about how he can make up the difference he owes."

"My sword!" The man lunged forward, ripping free of Soren's grasp. He promptly toppled forward, smashing into a rickety table. Unable to sustain his weight, it collapsed downward, sending splintery fragments sliding all over the floor along with the poor drunk. He rolled off the debris and groaned in pain, curling up and clutching his stomach.

"You can get it back tomorrow," Jonna replied, shaking her head as she spoke. "After you build me a new table. Stupid drunken sod."

Soren apologized profusely as he helped the man up and led him over to the corner room.

"S'okay, boy," the man grumbled, "You look familiar, somehow. You got a father, or a cousin, or something?"

Soren felt his cheeks flush. "Erhm... not anymore." His voice sounded small and weak next to the man's raspy baritone. "Never knew my da. I, ah, had an older brother, but he left to go fight dragons. Musta been seven, eight years ago. He never came back."

The man was silent as Soren fumbled with the door and then led him into the small corner room. He sagged heavily onto the bed and took one of his boots in his hand, struggling to unbuckle it. Evidently, the straps proved too clever for his sluggish fingers, for he soon gave up. He looked back up at Soren for a moment and squinted his eyes, but his spark of recognition evidently did not blossom into a flame.

"That's a sad story," the man mumbled, "And all too common. Know how it feels - sorry, kid."

Soren lowered his head. He didn't much care to talk or think about it - he'd been very young, and the worst moments of the dragon crisis remained to him a nightmarish blur. The man resumed trying to take off his boots, and Soren heard a tearing noise followed by a short, sharp curse; he'd torn one of the buckles right off.

He was about to leave him in his drunken misery but remembered that he ought to account for the man's room and board in the guestbook.

"What's your name, sir? For the books, you see."

The man looked up. His eyes were bleary, his forehead red. A smudgy trace of blue woad was barely visible on the left side of his face: two jagged lines that descended from his forehead, over his left eye, culminating in two points on his cheek. The warpaint hardly looked fearsome - just messy.

"Jakt," he croaked.

Then, in one smooth, delicate moment, he bent over, retched once, and spewed the contents of his stomach all over the floor.

* * *

2

Jakt awoke to a pounding headache and the all too familiar smell of sick. He sat up and groaned at the telltale combination of stiffness and rustling scales that indicated he'd slept in his armor. Trying to ignore the dull pangs that echoed in his brain, he lifted his armored coat off his torso and unbuckled the patchwork greaves affixed to his trousers. He'd managed to get one boot off, it seemed, but the buckle at the ankle had evidently torn and was nowhere to be found. He pulled it back on and wore it loose.

The night came back to him in a jumble. He remembered helping the serving boy clean up his own upchuck, and the mug after mug of mead that had led to that inevitable end. The disapproving face of the bartender percolated through his messy cavalcade of thoughts. Then he remembered why he'd been drinking so heavily - the argument _._ Thinking about it made him want to bury his head in his hands, which he did.

"Good, you're up," came a crisp voice: the Innkeep stood at the door. Middle-aged, with dark skin and a weathered face, she looked stern and disapproving. She walked over and offered him the mug in her hands: salt water. Jakt gargled for a moment and spat, thankful for the sharp, almost painful freshness it brought to his breath.

"Any freshwater?" he asked, pointing to the mug. "Free, I hope?"

"There's always snowmelt. You'll have to get it yourself, though." She turned and walked back into the main room.

Jakt took a breath and pushed himself upright, following her out. The Moorside Inn was a cozy space with a simple wooden bar, a collection of long tables and rough-cut stools; a large stone fire pit crackled faintly in the middle of the room. Jonna sat in front of last night's embers, trying to stoke them into a roaring flame, but the wood was wet and smoky, and wouldn't catch. Jakt wandered over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Let me help you with that," he murmured. She looked at him quizzically, but stood and handed him the poker before stepping aside. He pushed it back to her and knelt down before she could question him, positioning his face close to the sputtering fire. The warmth felt good, and he breathed deep, welcoming new life into his tired, roughshod lungs.

He whispered a word in the Tongue as he exhaled: a thin, steady stream of flame surged from his windpipe. He held the whispered command until the wood crackled into flame.

He turned back to Jonna to find her eyes wide - not with fear, but with amazement.

"You're a sorcerer?" She asked, "You certainly don't look the part."

"Not exactly," he replied, standing and warming his outstretched hands over the flame. He looked over at her again to see comprehension dawning on her face.

"The Voice," She said, with some awe. "You couldn't be... Are you - ?"

"No," he replied, cutting her off curtly: he didn't like the reverence in her tone. Thankfully she got the message and did not continue. At that moment his headache returned with a vengeance, and his parched throat, agitated by his display, bothered him once more.

"I'll get a bucket," he mumbled to her and started for the door, not really caring for her reply. Grabbing the wooden bucket that hung from a peg by the threshold, he opened the door of the Moorside Inn to behold the sleepy logging village in all its morning glory.

Morthal. The run-down capital of a poor, neglected provincial hold, the village welcomed him like an old, worn-out hound, lifting its head curiously for a moment before returning to its torpor. A trio of guards milled about: they stared at him with suspicion as he walked to the bank of the swampy, half-frozen river that ran through the city. He removed his boots, rolled up his trousers and waded in, the deathly cold water shocking his legs to the bone. He squatted down to give his face the same treatment, submerging it in the frigid, life-giving substance, hoping to chase off his hangover with the threat of frostbite. While he had learned to acquiesce to the harsh climate of his ancestral homeland, it had taken many long years to do so.

Jakt came up for air only when his skin began to scream for mercy. He felt about in his left trouser leg for a dagger he kept tucked there, its sheath sewn into the lining; finding it, he used several whacks of the pommel and the blade to break off a few chunks of ice, wrestling them into the wooden bucket before sloshing back to dry land. He stood for a moment, letting the cold air prickle at his wet skin, and took in the small town. It was constructed half over water, a collection of rickety wood buildings, half of which stood on stilted crannogs. The largest of these was the lumber mill, the town's only commodity with any sort of value. Next in size came High-Moon Hall, the seat of the local Jarl, distinguished not only by its respectable size but by the draped banners that depicted Morthal's sigil: a black, three-pronged swirl over a sea of green. It reminded Jakt of some otherworldly tentacled being, reaching through the void. He shivered, and not from the cold.

It was uncharacteristically clear that morning: the fog that usually covered the sleepy little town was low and translucent. Jakt could see the village line clearly, beyond which stretched the twisted, ominous foliage of the Drajkmyr Marsh. The two towers of Morthal, tall wooden structures capped with bright-burning bonfires kept lit at all times, loomed over the marsh. Also known as the Twin Candles, they were the easiest to see landmarks in all of the Hjallmarch, and yet still those who wandered into the marsh often did not find their way back.

Movement caught Jakt's eye: the serving boy from the inn stood on a nearby platform, chopping wood near a smoldering forge. His bare arms revealed well-formed musculature at odds with his ruddy, boyish face. Jakt watched him raise the woodcutter's axe in his hands and all of a sudden the pieces clicked into place.

"Benor," Jakt called up to him. The boy looked up, confused, then noticed Jakt and faltered. His face was red and sweaty. Jakt put the ice bucket down and jogged over to him.

"He was your brother," he continued, looking down at the lad, whose name he could not remember. The boy looked down, nodded. He was shorter than Jakt but quite stocky, overdeveloped for his age, which Jakt guessed at around fifteen.

"You knew him?" he asked, his tone shy.

"Knew him?" Jakt said, cracking a smile, "I fought with him. Tough bastard, he was - saved my life a couple of times. Carried a battle axe as if it was a wooden spoon."

"What ever happened to him?" the boy said, not looking up. Jakt's smile disappeared.

"He fell in battle," he began, slowly, "Fighting for something greater than he - like a true Nord." His words felt forced, empty: Jakt had seen many of his kinsman die in battle. Usually they spent their last moments crying out for their mothers, soiling their trousers, begging for mercy. He had not even seen Benor go - only ever heard about it, from a lesser man.

The boy's shoulders sagged slightly, but he looked up and met Jakt's eyes. He nodded slowly, with what might pass for acceptance: he'd had long years to come to terms with Benor's absence.

"Soren!" came a yell from the forge, "Where's that firewood, son?"

"Thanks," the boy murmured as he turned back to the task at hand. Jakt watched awkwardly for a moment, unsure what else to say to the lad. Eventually he turned away.

He wandered back to the Inn, feeling helpless and stuck. It was hardly a new sensation.

* * *

3

Jakt did a double take as he crossed the threshold of the Moorside Inn. Two strangers, dressed in distinctive robes, had joined Jonna in the main hearth. The taller one, a Redguard man, nodded a greeting. Everything about him was nondescript: his ageless face, shaved head, plain blue robes, neutral features. The other, a young, dark-haired Nord woman, stared at him curiously.

"Jakt," Jonna called over to him, "I'd like you to meet someone."

Jakt sighed under his breath, wondering where she'd learned his name. He was hardly excited to meet these newcomers - they had the look of magic users, which always put him on edge.

"My brother, Falion, the Jarl's court wizard. And his apprentice, Agni."

"Not sure I'd call High-Moon Hall much of a court," Jakt quipped as he quickly pumped Fallion's outstretched hand, "More of a hovel."

Falion seemed amused by his barb, but Jakt ignored for a moment him to focus on the young sorceress instead. Agni didn't stretch out her hand: just looked Jakt up and down, in a manner that was somewhere between distaste and intrigue. It was a look he'd felt far too often. She had shiny yellow eyes and pale, unblemished skin; her slender, symmetric face benefited from a pair of dark red lips and a small, pointed nose turned ever so slightly upwards at the tip. Jakt gave her a smirk, and in response she tilted her head ever so slightly to the side and raised an eyebrow. He wondered if she had yet seen two decades.

"Ahem," Falion said, shifting Jakt's attention away from the striking young sorceress, "I've heard much about you, Jakt Blade-Dancer."

Jakt laughed aloud, a terse chuckle devoid of mirth. "No one's called me that in a long while. But I appreciate the title, and I must say I've heard of you too, Falion Vampire-Lover."

Agni raised her eyebrows at that, and Jakt heard Jonna suck in her breath and curse under her breath. Falion frowned slightly but otherwise appeared unfazed.

"How very flattering. A moniker no doubt learned from someone at the College of Winterhold," he replied, "A scorned lover, perhaps?'

It was Jakt's turn to scowl.

"What is it that you want?" he asked, changing the subject, "Here I am in your sister's debt, so I assume you have some trivial task that needs be attended to.

"Trivial? I would not call it such," Falion began slowly, "A manner that would not only benefit myself and Jonna, but all of our community."

"Go on," Jakt said, already feeling restless.

"Morthal has seen strange tidings of late," Falion said, "Stranger than usual. Something dark and twisted lurks in the marsh, and its aura trickles into the village; the gloom seems to be infecting the townsfolk-"

"You mean, more so than usual?

Falion gave a half smile at that. "Aye. Three have gone missing in the last month: locals, who know better than to stray off the beaten path. Two have since returned, three or four days after they vanished, no memory whatsoever of what happened to them."

"Spare me the melodrama and let me guess what comes next," Jakt cut in, "You'd have me storm the marsh and slay the beast?" He laughed again. "Do I look like some thug, to be hired for loose change?"

"Yes," Agni interjected with just a trace of snark.

"Incorrect," Falion said reproachfully, ignoring his apprentice, "What I have in mind is a little more mundane. You see, a couple of days ago there was a fire in the village - a house belonging to a man named Hroggar burned down. His wife and young daughter perished in the flame."

Jakt's gut prickled; he felt a little remorse for antagonizing the wizard. "Ah… that's... a shame."

"Aye," Jonna interjected, "A travesty, but not for Hroggar." She huffed. Jakt looked at her, then turned back to Falion when no elaboration seemed forthcoming.

"Hroggar was one of the vanished - he went missing for a few days before the fire." the wizard explained, "Talking to him about it, you wouldn't hardly know that he cared - he moved in with another woman, Alva, shortly thereafter. According to the townsfolk, he won't speak of what happened - just goes as if his wife and child never existed."

Jakt shrugged and snorted, unimpressed with Falion's musing. "Sounds to me like the bastard desired another woman and was prepared to pay the price. A tragic tale that is tragically common."

"So it would seem." Falion replied. "But we'd like to confirm that story. Do some digging, ask around. Instinct tells me that something foul lurks behind these sad transgressions, something arcane. Someone does not want the truth known, and for what purpose, I can't say."

Jakt had to try hard not to roll his eyes. "Seems like a bit of a leap to cry sorcery, even for the town sorcerer. Did the militia look into it?"

"They made a show of conducting an investigation, but concluded that the fire was an accident. Didn't take them very long to come to that conclusion, no less."

Jakt stared hard at Falion's impassive features. "Why can't you do this yourself?"

Agni spoke again. Her voice was low and quite sharp. "Surely you know, kinsman. This land of ours holds no love for those magically inclined. Morthal is no exception - if anything, it is the prime example."

"The villagers will hardly share anything with us," Falion said. He sounded resigned to this fact, unlike his apprentice; it was plain to Jakt that she harbored a bit of a grudge.

"You haven't exactly given them much cause to trust you, brother," Jonna replied to him. She turned to Jakt. "He is right, though. Morthal may be wary of strangers, but as an outsider you've a far better chance to get anywhere with the villagers than a spellslinger would."

Jakt mulled it over for a moment. Nihilistic thoughts festered in his brain: what did he care about these people, this town? It was at best a pit stop on a road that lead nowhere in particular.

"The Jarl has a stake in this, you know," Falion said, sensing his hesitation, "And she'll be willing to pay you should you see it through."

Jakt sighed. He did need the money. He'd spent far too much on frivolous pursuits as of late - especially drink.

"Very well," he said, resigning himself to the task. "But I'll have my sword back, thank you very much."

"I left it on your bed," Jonna said, "Though if the Gods are merciful you won't need it."

Jakt looked at her for a moment and shrugged. "I wouldn't count on the Gods being merciful," he muttered as he turned around and walked towards the corner room.

Right as he reached for the door handle he heard Agni speak.  
"You know, I was expecting the Dragonborn to be a bit… _more_."

* * *

4

Jakt knelt at the snow-covered wreckage of the small cabin, rubbing his shoulders to ward off the cold. The day had grown colder as it wore on, and the fur parka he had borrowed from Jonna was ratty and worn.

The ruined cabin itself was rather bland and uninteresting. Most of the debris had evidently been picked away by the villagers: only the floor and some of the frame remained, along with the half-toppled stone chimney. There was a telltale cone scorched into the wooden floorboards that seemed to point away from the fireplace, a potential indicator that the fire had simply spilled over and gotten out of control. Jakt was hardly a forensic expert, however, and the hut was small enough such that it would be easy to escape an accidental blaze begun in that manner.

All of a sudden he heard the telltale creak of a footstep on wood. He whirled around to find the serving boy, Soren, standing bashfully in the burned-out threshold.

"Shor's bones," breathed Jakt. "Don't sneak up on me like that." He noticed Soren staring at his side uneasily; he looked down to see that his hand had grasped his sword hilt unconsciously.

"Old habits," he murmured apologetically, letting his hand fall to his side.

"Are you the one looking in to Helgi's death?"

Jakt nodded. "You knew her well?"

The boy blushed and nodded. "She was just a year younger than me - She used to tease me a lot, but I rather liked her."

Jakt felt another pang of sorrow for the boy. "Did she ever speak much about her father?"

Soren nodded again. "Yes - they loved each other very much. Hroggar was the best father in town, to hear her tell it."

There was a quiet note of envy in Soren's voice, one that Jakt could relate to: he knew what it was like to grow up without a father.

"He must be pretty torn up about it, then," Jakt mused.

Soren shrugged. "Nobody much liked Helgi's mom, though: she was from Solitude, I think, and she _hated_ this place. Helgi would complain about her all the time. She was very rude to the rest of town, too."

Jakt rubbed his chin. "Do you think that's why no one seems to care that she's dead and gone?"

The lad recoiled slightly at that, and Jakt immediately regretted the callous nature of the question.

"Listen, Soren," he followed up quickly, "I'd like to help find out what really happened, but it seems like nobody in Morthal wants to face the truth of the matter. You knew the girl a bit: anything you can tell me helps, and maybe along the way we can put her memory to rest the way she deserved."

The boy paused, sniffed, then spoke.

"I don't know if this will help, but a few days before it all... happened, Helgi told me he'd been acting… weird."

"Weird? How?"

"Well," the boy seemed hesitant, almost skeptical. "She said that she'd heard her father calling out to someone in his sleep… kept saying the name, ' _Kelpie, Kelpie_.' After he went missing, she told me she thought he'd gone to find her - Kelpie, I mean."

"Anyone in Morthal by that name?" Jakt asked. Soren shook his head.

"Strange," Jakt said, thinking to himself. "First you heard of it?"

Soren nodded and shrugged.

"Not very talkative, are you?"

Soren blushed and stood there silently. When he understood Jakt wasn't going to let him go without some sort of reply, he stammered out an explanation.

"I just… I don't want to get in the way. That's what folk used to say about my brother - that he was big and stupid and that when he tried to help he'd always end up prying. Morthal doesn't like meddlers, and I think that's why he left. I don't want folk to think I'm stupid and nosy, and drive me out like they did to him."

Jakt frowned, unsure of what to say to the boy. "It's okay to want to keep your head down, but folk will think what they want regardless. If you want them to respect you, you have to earn that respect." He paused, unsure where he was going with the thought.

"In the end, though, you have to ask yourself if their respect is really worth what it takes you to get it - especially in a place such as Morthal."

Soren cocked his head to the side. Jakt was worried that he had confused the boy, but he seemed to take Jakt's words in stride. "So Benor left because he didn't want to give up helping people?"

Jakt shrugged. "He never told me much about himself, Soren. He let his deeds speak for him."

The boy nodded solemnly, then perked up a bit. "Do you think, maybe later, you might teach me to swing a sword?"

Jakt smiled. "No one around here ever bothered to teach you?"

"Well, I guess I never asked."

"Maybe some other time. Thanks for your help, kid."

* * *

5

Jakt spent the rest of the day trying to track down Hroggar, a task that ultimately proved fruitless. Nobody seemed to know where the man was, or - more likely - refused to tell him. After enduring a particularly unpleasant barrage of glares from the man's peers at the lumber mill, Jakt decided that he was fed up with the villagers of Morthal. Clearly they felt obligated to protect each other's business: though he understood why, Jakt found their attitude pointless and obstructive.

It was time to give Soren's half-baked shred of information a harder look.

He made his way over to Falion's home, a rather odd structure at the far end of town. It consisted of a stubby, two-story tower, connected to a small house with walls and a roof that were constructed mostly of large plate-glass windows. Jakt peeked inside to see several rows of troughs, each with a hodge-podge of plants and fungi growing inside. The glass was fogged, and surprisingly warm to the touch; through the misted panes, Jakt could make out a human form moving about inside, occasionally bending over to tend to the plants. He rapped sharply on the glass.

"Come in through the tower!" a muffled voice called out a second later.

Jakt complied - there didn't seem to be an entrance to the glass room anyways - and circled around to the front door. It was unlocked, and gave way to a partitioned room that contained a sparsely-decorated cooking space, with cupboards, counters and a brick stove. Curtains draped over one end of the room gave some illusion of privacy: they were half-drawn, and Jakt could see a poorly-made bed peeking out from behind them. For a wizard's hut, it seemed surprisingly ordinary. A spiral staircase in one corner, constructed of mahogany and carved with beautiful, flowing symbols, led Jakt to deduce that Falion's laboratory was on the second floor.

"I'm in the greenhouse!" came the voice: no longer muffled, it was sharp and feminine. Jakt padded into the strange glass-walled room, craning his neck with curiosity. The first thing he became aware of was the temperature. Soothing fires, contained in grilled metal sconces, sat at the end of every trough, heating the room; their flames glowed a faint green, a telltale hint of their magical origin. The warmth was soothing, almost sleepy, and Jakt felt a calmness drift through his body. He felt a drop of water burst on his nose, and looked up to see condensation forming on the glass. There was something strangely beautiful about the room: a bubble of warmth and greenery in the midst of a damp, desolate winter.

Agni, the wizard's apprentice, was bent over a half-empty trough, turning the thick, dark soil within with her bare hands. She was barefoot, clad in a simple sleeveless slip, forest green in color, that cut off at her knees and suited her quite well. Her forearms were black and moist with dirt. She turned to face him with a flip of her sleek dark hair, and his mouth felt a little dry all of a sudden.

"What can I do for you, Jakt?" she said with a sly smile, placing the tips of her fingers gingerly on her hips.

"What is this place?" Jakt said, casting another look around, "I've never seen anything like it."

"It was Falion's idea," Agni explained, "A greenhouse, it's called; it allows us grow plants out of season, regardless of the climate. He made an effort to try and get the Jarl to build a bigger one to _really_ grow crops in, but ultimately the townsfolk rejected the proposal." She snorted in a derogatory fashion at that.

"Why?" Jakt asked, "Seems like it would do the town some good."

"Why do you think?" she reprimanded, "Because the idea came from _him_ , and the fools were too stupid to see past that."

Jakt raised an eyebrow. "You really don't like Morthal much, do you?"

"That obvious, is it?" Agni sighed, rubbing her arm awkwardly and spreading the moist dirt to her bare bicep. She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

"I grew up here, believe it or not," She finally said, "Falion took me in when I was young - my parents perished during the Civil War, you see. He professed to teach me the ways of magic, and he does - when he is around, of course. I've sought to leave for some time now, but the old man refuses to take me."

"Why is that?"

"Rather inquisitive for a blunt instrument, aren't you, Jakt?" she teased, "Clearly we hired the right man for the job."

Jakt did not bother to reply. Agni turned and glided over to a nearby water basin and began to scrub her arms; he had to fight the urge to stare at her backside as she did so. After a moment she turned to face him again, frowning.

"The Drajkmyr is a curious place," she began, choosing her words carefully. "For reasons not well understood, a sort of ancient, perennial magic saturates the swamp, very powerful, but utterly unpredictable. Falion has studied it for a long time - he's become very attached - but still its greatest mysteries elude him. To leave Morthal it is to bid farewell to that obsession, and he is not yet ready to do so. Most likely he will perish here, his greatest questions unanswered."

Jakt frowned at her cynicism: it was surprising for one her age.

"Why not leave yourself, then? Go study in Winterhold?"

Agni scoffed. "At the College? And sacrifice whatever scarce autonomy I possess? No, Falion's tutelage is far more lenient than any I might find there. Not to mention, it is exclusive."

Jakt shrugged, content not to discuss the College of Winterhold further.

Agni seemed to understand. "I'm quite sure you didn't come here to chat about my hopes and dreams, though," she said matter-of-factly, putting her hands on her hips once more and shifting her weight onto one foot.

"As fascinating as they are, I'm afraid not. Where is Falion?

"He'll be gone for the next couple of days. He makes semi-regular trips into the marsh this time of year."

Jakt was disappointed. "Ah. Damn it."

"A magic-related question? Something I can help you with, perhaps?" She blinked and smiled sweetly.

"Does batting your eyebrows usually get answers for you?" Jakt asked wryly.

Agni winked. "Not as much as you'd think."

He chuckled. "Alright. Since Falion isn't around, you'll have to do. I've done a bit of snooping into Hroggar's affairs and I keep hearing this name thrown around - _Kelpie_. Does that sound familiar to you? A woman's name, perhaps?"

Agni frowned and bit her lip. "Kelpie? Hmm. Not a name, no - the Kelpie is an old myth, I think. You've never heard of it?"

Jakt shook his head. "I wasn't exactly raised on bedtime stories."

"Well," Agni began, scratching at her chin, "In the tale, the Kelpie is a sort of spectre - a shapeshifting apparition who dwells near bodies of water, who lures unsuspecting travelers to their demise." She paused and tilted her head before continuing. "I'm sure the story is a little more complicated than I can remember though. Falion has an old book on folklore somewhere in here I can dig up if you'd like."

Jakt grunted noncommittally. "I don't know - a river ghost? That sounds a little bit farfetched to me."

Agni pursed her lips. "Not a believer in the old legends, do you?"

Jakt grinned ruefully and shook his head. "Don't get me wrong - I've seen far too many legends come to life not to believe in them. But in my experience, when it comes to personal tragedies like Hroggar's family, more often than not the simplest explanation ends up being the right one."

"So you think Hroggar set the fire?"

"Probably. Can't seem to find the son of a bitch, though."

"I can't really help you there, Jakt. I'm not the most civic minded, if you couldn't tell."

Jakt smiled. "Yes, this visit has been quite the waste of my valuable time."

"Not completely," Agni said, flashing a shy smile that was not without a hint of suggestion. She gestured at the greenhouse around her. "At least you managed to catch a glimmer of spring."

"Yes," Jakt replied quietly, looking her in the eye, "Thank you for that."

He was somewhat struck by this odd, clever girl: the way she put on airs when she spoke, used her good looks to dazzle and tease and distract. She would make a fine sorceress one day: she certainly had the temperament for it. For now, she remained the lone flower in the marsh, and seemed quite aware of it.

Agni shifted her weight onto one leg, putting one shapely hip on display, and tilted her head to one side in a demure fashion. "Now run along, before someone peeks in through the glass and gets the wrong idea." She smiled and turned away, arching her back ever so slightly as she tended to the indoor garden.

Jakt allowed himself a quick moment to admire her in profile before shaking his head and taking his leave. So Morthal was not without traces of warmth after all.

* * *

6

Jakt exited the wizard's hut to find twilight's clammy palms clutching at the village. Morthal's customary fog had returned with the dusk: a thick blanket of the stuff had descended over the town, masking it in an oppressive grey inertia. Stepping out into the fog, Jakt felt weightless, almost inconsequential; a long day had passed and he was no closer to his goal. He decided that a drink would do him some good, and headed for the Moorside Inn.

On his way over, he passed the burnt out husk of Hroggar's former household. It was a fitting embodiment of the current state of this mystery; he spared it no more than a withering glance. As he turned away, however, he caught some sort of glint, a quick flash of light, in the corner of his eye. He stopped and turned back, giving the decrepit building a long, hard stare, but it appeared as before: partially collapsed, the bare bones of a broken home.

Then he heard something: a small, low sigh, coming from all around him. Startled, he spun around in confusion, but the translucent fog masked much of his visibility; nobody was in sight. Then he heard it again. Louder this time, a soft sound that slowly warped into something far more disturbing: a scream, high in pitch, the kind a child might make out of fear.

He closed his eyes and focused his hearing; the noise seemed to be coming from the cabin. Jakt padded forward, one hand on his hilt of sheathed sword, his head on a swivel. The light in the ruin reappeared, pulsing slightly, tracing the darkened outline of the dilapidated doorway with bright blue light. The screaming rose to a fever pitch as Jakt crossed the threshold into the house. In the corner near the fireplace, a glowing orb hovered about a yard off the ground, shedding nebulous, hazy light like vapor from ice.

Just as Jakt thought his eardrums might burst, the screaming quieted, fading to a low whimper. Jakt reached out his palm towards the orb of light, but came short of touching it. A curious sensation pierced his mind: a recognition of awareness, and relief.

Jakt understood. "Helgi."

Whatever had killed the girl had evidently left something of her behind: a spectre of her consciousness, not quite corporeal, but with some modicum of self awareness. When he spoke the name, a sense of identity flooded his brain, almost like a revelation. This was followed up immediately by an unbearable sense of loss. Jakt felt himself tear up, buckle at the knees, unable to comprehend much less process the emotions accompanied by the realization of one's death.

"What happened?" Jakt whispered, closing his moistened eyes, trying to compose himself.

He felt warmth wash over him, the sting of smoke fill his nostrils. At first the heat was comfortable, almost a relief, but it steadily increased, crossing the precipice of coziness into the realm of pain. He felt his heart beat, quick and erratic, as a low scream filled his ears, accompanied by frantic pounding against wooden walls. The air vanished from his lungs, replaced with smoke; his vision blurred as he witnessed a large, familiar form stagger and fall, heaving desperately. It was his mother, her clothes and hair aflame, trembling and wailing; he ran to her arms, but her embrace was pure, searing pain, and he screamed as the fire passed to him. Fiery claws of agony raked across his tiny body, hungry for his lifeblood.

He wriggled free of his dying mother's searing grasp, but could move no further: laying there, breathless and burning, he looked up to find another familiar form hovering over him: a slender, raven-haired woman, somehow untouched by the blaze all around, swaddled in black. Distant, unimaginably tired, he could not place her face, but he recognized pain and sorrow in her eyes. She bent down and took his frail, blackened body in her arms, raising him up to plant a kiss on the crisped skin of his neck. Cold spread outwards from the kiss, a frigid, deafening cold like the dead of winter, and for a minute he thought it might envelop him and drive away all the pain... but it was too late. Fire and blackness fought it back, and he felt himself drifting away into inky depths…

Jakt opened his eyes to find himself curled up on his side on the floor of the cabin, tears streaming down his face. He forced himself to take long, deep breaths, getting his bearings. He put his hands to his bare face, relieved to feel the touch of smooth, whole skin against his trembling fingers.

Calmed somewhat, he looked up to see that the orb's light had faded slightly.

"Who was that?" Jakt asked it, rubbing his eyes and rising to his knees. The spectre could only communicate uncertainty. It appeared to be fading, having exhausted much of its resolve by sharing the vision of Helgi's demise. Jakt wondered how long it had lingered there, night after night, trying hopelessly to get ahold of someone, anyone.

"What can I do?" Jakt said, rubbing his forehead, watching apprehensively as Helgi's revenant faded further and further. He felt it reach out and touch his mind one final time. A sense of claustrophobia took over as he felt frosted ground envelop him, and his only channel between the dark, enclosed space and the world above was a cold slab of stone.

Then the light vanished, leaving Jakt completely alone in the fog.

* * *

A/N: This began as a short story about my Dragonborn and became quite involved. I had originally sought to release it all at once but I think it flows better in parts. It is mostly finished - hopefully I will have a chance to update frequently!


	2. The Demon of the Swamp

It took Jakt some time to track down Morthal's burial ground.

An unpleasant and unsuccessful interaction with a suspicious guardsmen forced Jakt to return to the Moorside Inn and ask Jonna its location instead. The Innkeep was reluctant to oblige, citing discomfort around the cemetery, but he eventually managed to wrangle it out of her by appealing to her sense of duty. Her trepidation puzzled Jakt: she had struck him as the stoic, unflappable type, and her unwillingness to help puzzled him.

The combination of Jonna's unease, the guard's hostile manner, and his bizarre contact with the spirit of a dead girl had started to weigh on Jakt's mind. Before leaving the Moorside Inn he took the time to don his armor, seeking solace in its familiarity: the scaled jerkin's weight and feel was comforting, its patchwork nature a result of many long years of wear, tear, and repair. He also made sure to snag a torch from a nearby wall sconce, for the darkness of the evening had conspired with the mists of Morthal to severely curtail visibility.

The spot itself was dreary in the way one might expect from a cemetery. A short hike outside the village limits, it was built atop a hillock that rose from a copse of twisted marsh trees. The location made sense: the ground was loamy but more or less dry, ensuring that the remains of Morthal's deceased weren't permanently buried in six inches of swampy water. A low rock wall encircled the motley assortment of headstones, some quite weathered and old. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the layout. Holding his torch up to each headstone in turn, Jakt could just barely make out similar surnames arrayed in vague clusters. Helgi and her mother's graves were not difficult to spot: their headstones were fresh, made of a grey sandstone that was lighter than most of the others.

Jakt walked over and stared down at the pair of burial sites. Helgi's mother's grave, much like its occupant, was simple, and would soon pass into obscurity. Her daughter's place of rest was similar, but there was something strange about it - not the slab, but rather the grave itself. It seemed... _fresh._

Jakt knelt and swept his hand over the ground: the soil was loose, newly turned, and spread easily at his gentle brushings. In contrast, the dirt above her mother's grave was hard, well packed.

Jakt frowned. Why would anyone want to exhume Helgi's body? He certainly had no desire to do so, regardless of whether it might answer to the question.

He slid over to the nearby rock wall and sat with his back against it, perplexed. The freshly-turned grave was puzzling, true, but was it really the only reason that Helgi's aspect had dispatched him there? Confused and slightly dejected, he reached into the satchel at his belt and and produced a small metal flask, sloshing it about to test the contents. Satisfied, he opened it and pressed the lid to his lips, taking a deep swig. A searing splash of Wrothgaran rye cascaded down his throat, bringing much-needed warmth to his damp body.

He leaned back, resting his head on the top of the wall, looking up at the monotonous night sky. Taking another swig, he watched as a gap in the clouds opened up, revealing the bright, gentle curve of one of the twin moons. He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars, wondering which one of their tiny portals might lead him to Sovngarde, to be reunited with all the friends, lovers, heroes and villains that he had left far behind…

That old, unbearable sense of loss swelled in his chest, worse than any physical pain. Long years spent on the road had done little to ward it off. He took another gulp of rye and closed his eyes, trying to suppress the raw hurt: a recurring battle, it was best won with the help of drink, he'd found. He drained the remnants of the flask, the liquor burning relief into his body from his stomach to his eyeballs, suppressing the deep, perennial ache of loneliness. A cloud slowly descended over his thoughts, not unlike the fog over the swamp; he let his mind drift into a drunken stupor.

When Jakt opened his eyes again he felt sluggish, exhausted. He must have dozed off: it was still dark, but the moons had set somewhat, and his head throbbed gently with the genesis of a hangover. He was just about to stand and shake the mental cobwebs loose when he noticed the hooded figure standing not three yards before him, a black column of obsidian ascending from interminable mist. Whoever it was hadn't noticed him, concentrating instead on the burial mound below. Jakt was still a little groggy, but he knew that the grave in question must be Helgi's - with all that had transpired, whose else could it be?

The figure knelt and pulled something out of the cloak, a conical burlap bundle, and began to unwrap it. Jakt stayed completely still, conscious of his scale jerkin's tendency to rattle, as he strained to see the contents of the package.

They were flowers. A hint of blue in the hazy moonlight - the color of lament. Jakt felt a pang in his chest. A rush of compassion drove him to speak out.

"Hroggar?" he asked hopefully, his voice hoarse.

There was a sharp intake of breath as the figure whirled towards him, dropping the flowers. Jakt saw a hint of pale skin, one yellow eye widened in alarm. A silver dagger appeared in the stranger's hand, glinting faintly in the dim moonlight. Jakt heaved himself upright and held out both palms in a peaceful gesture. He tensed his legs, however, his knees slightly bent, ready to spring into action.

"You're not supposed to be here," came a high and wary voice, a woman's voice, from behind the hood.

"I'm not here to trouble you," Jakt said, keeping his tone neutral and calm, "I'm here to help."

He took a step forward. The woman shifted slightly, pointing the dagger at him, and he caught a further glimpse of her features: a sharp, defined cheekbone that traced its way down to a pair of deep red lips, pursed fearfully. There was something familiar about her he couldn't quite place. Jakt felt silly for thinking so - he hadn't even seen her whole face - but he couldn't shake the notion that they'd met before.

The woman did not move, did not speak. She seemed to be sizing Jakt up. Despite her obvious fear, she held her dagger straight and still, pointed at the spot between his eyes. He took another step forward, but did not allow himself to relax.

"Please," he asked, "Will you tell who you-"

Before he could finish, she pumped her arm, sending her dagger hurling towards his body.

Jakt threw himself down and to the side at the first sign of movement, thumping heavily to the ground. He caught a flash of silver in the corner of his eye as the dagger whirled overhead; he heard a clank as it skipped off the top of the stone wall and into the night. He'd expected some clumsy attack, meant to distract rather than harm: sure enough, when he looked up, she had vanished.

He lurched upright and spun in a circle, spotting her retreating form as she dashed down the cemetery hillock. He grabbed the hilt of his sword to steady it as he took off after her, thrashing through the underbrush, stumbling around logs and sloshing through patches of half-frozen mud. The woman was quick, but Jakt's bulk gave him an edge - where she had to duck and weave through thick foliage, he crashed through instead. Brambles and thorns tugged at his hair and his skin - he felt a flash of pain on one cheek, followed by a trickle of warm blood - but he ran on, pulling out his sword and using it to hack his way through the undergrowth.

" _Stop_!" he yelled after her, but still the woman pounded ahead. He felt a prickle of unease at the back of his mind - why hadn't she tried to hide from him, or at least confuse him? From the way she was thumping through the brush, it seemed as though she didn't much care that he might follow. They were heading deeper into the Drajkmyr, and Jakt could not shake the feeling that she was leading him somewhere. But still he pounded along behind her, doubling his efforts to catch up to her. His legs began to burn, his lungs grew taught in his chest, but he was gaining on her.

They crashed through a thicket wall into what looked like a misty glade. She skidded to a stop and whirled around to watch as he followed her through the breach. Behind her the ground was still and impossibly flat. The slight reflective sheen told him it wasn't a clearing, but a lake, almost completely obscured by the low fog. Jakt came to a stop about ten feet away from the strange woman. Her back was to the water: he had her trapped.

"Nowhere to go!" Jakt panted to her, holding his sword loosely at his side, short of breath and patience. "Don't make me do anything drastic!"

Her hood had come off during the chase, revealing a pallid face, with gaunt cheeks and eyes bright with fear. There was something bestial about her appearance and mannerisms: the hungry way she sucked in air like a cornered animal; her shiny yellow eyes - unnatural, unblinking. There was a strange emptiness about her: she reminded him of a seashell, beautiful yet hollow. A scrap of memory that was not his flashed in his mind - the kiss of cold lips against a child's burnt skin - and he managed to place her. She was the black-clad, raven-haired woman in Helgi's vision, the one present at her death.

She began to whisper something: to Jakt's unfamiliar ear, it sounded like a curse. He tensed his legs and whipped his sword up, prepared to burst into motion, but she made no further move: just stood there, muttering.

"What are you saying?" he asked her in consternation, taking a step forward, "Who are you? What did you do to the girl, to Helgi?"

At the mention of Helgi's name she faltered, her eyes widening. Jakt relaxed his guard a little bit, took another step towards her.

"I'm trying to help her - help _you_."

Their eyes met for a moment. Something inside of her clicked: he saw her jaw tighten in resolve, her eyes narrowed. She resumed her incantation.

"What are you -"

Faster than he could possibly fathom, a thick, unnatural fog rolled off the lake and enveloped the two of them. He couldn't remember when the haze had formed - one minute it had been clear, the next, all-encompassing, impenetrable - and the only source he could fathom was some sort of magical illusion. Whatever the raven-haired woman had spoken under her breath must have summoned it, he speculated; his stomach churned at the thought that she might be a sorceress. He could just barely make out her form standing before him, motionless, her ghostly expression almost serene. The fog settled onto his skin, heavy and warm, strangely comforting; Jakt had to fight not to let himself feel calm, at ease.

He closed the gap, sword held tight and close, only to find that the raven-haired woman had melted into the ether. He whipped around, searching desperately for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. The fog closed in around him, dense and oppressive, warm and clammy on his exposed skin. A sharp whine split the still, heavy air, setting his nerves afire. It sounded almost like the bray of a horse, but with a haunting, sorrowful timbre.

A dark, demonic shape materialized in front of him, several feet away. It was massive, taller than he, with a glossy black pelt that shone like forged ebony. It was horselike in appearance, but not like the shaggy, rough-hewn mounts native to Skyrim; it looked larger and far stronger, its taut, corded muscles rippling under its unblemished skin. It had red-orange eyes that glowed like embers, and a long, unkempt mane that seemed to float and twist in the air as if it were submerged underwater. It stepped forward and tossed its equine head, giving a piercing whinny once more. It was like a child's nightmare, come to life.

Jakt felt a pang of pure terror reverberate up his spine as the keening cry split his ears. It was bigger than any horse he'd ever seen. Its inky-black aura seemed spill across the confines of its corporeal form, adding to its unfocused, hazy appearance. He raised his blade - the faint red glow of its old, weakened enchantment a feeble mirror of the beast's fiercely glowing eyes - and bent his knees slightly.

The monster lowered its bulky head and dashed towards him, closing the distance between them impossibly fast, leading with its wide, powerful shoulders. Jakt, expecting the charge, managed to dance aside, bringing his blade around to rake across the beast's flank. Paradoxically, his sword met no resistance; inky-black vapor spurted forth where the blade met flesh. The beast buckled, shrieking once more, but maintained its forward momentum, only to vanish into the fog a second later. Jakt spun around to the spot where it had disappeared, his blade at the ready, only to watch the cloudy black ichor that had spewed forth from the beast dissipate into the heavy mist.

A tense moment passed: Jakt pivoted, wary and confused, his heart pounding louder than his head. He heard another horse-like shriek, but it seemed far away; the distance gave it a mournful quality, and Jakt felt a foreign consciousness strike a chord in his brain.

His mind opened itself to the sensation, and for the second time that night he felt the rims of his eyes moisten against his will. A torrent of emotions surged through his agitated, slightly drunken head; unfettered anger, the agony of unwilling service, a longing for freedom. It was different, however, than the vision he'd received from Helgi's ghost: not shared willfully, but imposed upon his mind, a mental flood washing against the bulwarks of his brain.

White-hot rage flashed through his head, overwhelming him. He cried out and stumbled forward, ceding one hand from his weapon to clutch at his burning temples. The anger faded, and an eerie, claustrophobic sensation took over; his vision blurred as his sinuses prickled with quick, sharp pains.

A dim buzzing in the back of his head grew into a mob of displaced mutterings - fearful whispers of demons and monsters, real or imagined. His vision darkened and the fog stretched and wavered; the whispered voices gave way to the clash of steel, accompanied by the anguish of dying souls, mothers and fathers weeping as their children spilled the blood of their kin. He thought he heard a chorus of frightened voices cry out, followed by the crackle of burning flesh; the swooping whoosh of tremendous leathery wings, a familiar low screech from the mouth of a horned demon-god, long dead…

Jakt shook his head to clear the vision, thoroughly disoriented. The fog pressed in all around, its suffocating warmth deadening the feeling in his extremities. He pressed the flat of his blade against his cheek, the cold metal against his skin a sharp feeling of clarity around which he could organize his jumbled thoughts and emotions.

He took a step forward that ended up being more of a lurch; the near edge of his sword scraped against his face, drawing a drop of blood. He could feel his resolve building, his strength returning. Gaining confidence, he took his sword in both hands once more, planting both feet, prepared to face the apparition, whatever it was, once more.

As if summoned, it reappeared in front of him. It was terrible in its beauty, a glossy-black beacon for fears he had buried deep within himself. It pawed at the ground and snorted as a normal horse would, but Jakt knew that it must be some spirit, some shade, a corporeal husk cursed to haunt this unfamiliar plane. Jakt's heart skipped a few beats; he had known that feeling of loneliness and frustration. He might not best the beast physically, but he might yet reach it another way.

 _What are you?_ He asked silently, forcing the thought into the cone of aural inertia that seemed to emanate from the beast.

As if in reply, an inquisitive sensation filled his head, echoing in his inner ear. _You control your fear in our presence,_ the cloud of thought seemed to suggest - not a question, but a statement, one made in surprise. The beast began a slow canter, trotting around him, tossing its head curiously.

 _Many monsters have I known,_ Jakt followed up, _but those who would see me harmed more often take the guise of men or mer._

Jakt had meant to reassure, but instead his stream of thoughts seemed to agitate the apparition. It whinnied again, a sound that was accompanied by a sharp pain in his temples. A jumbled torrent of anger surged through his mind once more; it was all he could do to remain standing.

After a moment, the deluge slowed, replaced by a suggestion. Its thoughts somehow had grown more coherent, as if it was beginning to learn his patterns of his thought. _Begone, interloper. Beware those that lurk near, or suffer the fate of your lessers._

Jakt tasted blood in his mouth: he'd bitten his tongue without even noticing. He limped over to a nearby tree, his saturated brain thumping painfully as he braced himself against its gnarled trunk with one hand. His sword trembled in his hand; it was a struggle to keep it upright.

"Wait," he panted aloud, "My lessers? What do you - "

The spectre reared up on its hind legs and shrieked once more, renewing its mental barrage. Jakt cried out, dropping his sword to clutch at his temples: it felt as though it might split open. Memories and sensations stampeded through his head like a cavalcade of drunken bandits. A pang of raw emotion nearly drove him to his knees, allowing a subtle chorus of whispers to ferment in the back of his brain, infecting his thoughts.

 _All the power of Talos in one man's voice, squandered on the whims of the fickle for sums that might barely fetch a cheap whore - or at the behest of so-called friends and lovers who merely seek their own gain. How disappointing…_

For the second time that night, Jakt could feel his eyes welling up with tears. He blinked several times to ward off the moisture, and an all-too familiar face flashed in front of his vision: haughty and heart-shaped, grey-eyed with freckles and red-gold hair. Then the image vanished, replaced by the fading portraits of friends long gone: a skinny old man with shock of white hair; a swarthy, smirking Imperial, his teeth glinting like pearl; a proud shieldmaiden, her golden hair flowing in the breeze; a dunmer priest, uncorking a bottle of sujamma with a sad smile on his face...

 _Dragonborn…_

He sank to his knees, the clamor of voices whirling and shouting in his ears, a hurricane of fury and alienation and despair. The apparition appeared in front of him, joined by the raven-haired woman. Reluctantly, it bent its head and the gale quieted, allowing the woman to speak.

"Come with us," she whispered, her voice an otherworldly lament, her own face wet with tears, "Come, and find what you seek: absolution, penance, peace."

With one motion she shed her robe, revealing her slender, statuesque body. The whiteness of her skin was blinding: she looked like she was carved from ivory. She bent down on one knee and reached out her hand towards him; it hovered there, a beacon of light in a haze of misery. Behind her, the beast pawed and shook impatiently, but did not move. To the tiny sliver of Jakt's brain that retained any semblance of awareness, it seemed discontent, unwilling in its subservience.

"Take my hand," she beckoned once more, an edge to her voice this time. Unsure, Jakt lifted a hand to his face; he stared at it for a moment, noting the nooks and crannies, the tiny scars and dirty fingernails.

"Let go…"

He looked back to her face and slowly reached out his hand towards her. He felt the edges of his vision begin to sway, darkness clutching at his body and mind; it was warm and soothing. His hand looked callous and ugly in front of hers. Her unblinking, yellow-ringed eyes met his, and she let out a calm, relieved breath.

Right as their fingertips touched, a bolt of lightning smashed into the side of her head.

She crumpled without a word; the tranquility in the air vanished in an instant. The monster reared up, its shrill whinny splitting the air, and the voices returned, more furious than ever.

"NO!"

He threw himself to her side, cradling the raven-haired woman in his arms. A small, scorched contusion smoldered at her temple where the bolt had struck, a blackened crater in her otherwise perfect skin. Devastation welled up inside him, feeding the chorus of fury as it smashed against the walls of his mind, building to a crescendo. He looked up to see the monster lowering its head, preparing to charge. He let the woman slide from his arms and staggered upright, took a step forward, his hands balling into fists.

Then it was gone, taking the maelstrom of sound and fury with it.

Cold exhaustion clutched at him, sucking away what little warmth remained in his limbs. His legs gave was and he fell to his knees. He pawed at the ground with sluggish arms, staring at the damp, loamy dirt as the ground warped and twisted in front of him. As he struggled to remain awake, he thought he heard small, frantic footsteps, drawing closer. His head felt thick and heavy; accepting defeat, he slumped onto one side, turning his gaze upwards towards the foggy night sky. He let out a rasping breath and a woman's face filled his sight, heartshaped and haughty, as he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.

" _Lysana…"_

8

"Jakt!"

His eyelids felt heavy, his lips slow and thick. His head throbbed, a slow thudding ache. Groaning, he opened his eyes; a soft blue light filled his vision, along with the worried face of Agni, the wizard's apprentice. An orb of magelight hovered around her face, tracing sharp shadows across her soft features

"What happened? Are you alright?"

"Agni," he grunted, forming words with some difficulty, "What are you doing here?"

"I followed you," she said. She was shaking slightly, and her eyes were wide and shiny; she kept looking over at something that lay beyond Jakt.

He sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes, felt the familiar ache of a hangover descending over his brain. Though the pain was minor, the disorientation was worse than normal: his chest felt stretched and hollow; his tongue dry and raspy. Though the moons had set somewhat, night still reigned over the swamp. If not for Agni's spell, the darkness would have been obfuscating. He waited a moment for his senses to adjust before turning to whatever seemed to be preoccupying the girl.

It was the raven-haired woman, lying prone and still, her face downwards. Jakt rose and clunked towards her as Agni drifted behind, fidgeting. He bent down and turned her over, revealing a pale, lifeless face, traced with the telltale bluish zig-zag scars left by a bolt of lightning. She was more gaunt than he remembered, and had lost that luminous quality that had seemed to draw him in. Her skin had reverted to a pallid grey tone, and looked as though it had shrunk: it was stretched so tautly over her body that he could make out every rib in her ribcage, and her protruding hip bones were sharp like daggers. With one hand he closed her yellow eyes, bright even in death.

He'd seen folk like this before, he realized with sinking dread; heart beating fast, he raised her upper lip to reveal her front teeth. As he suspected, her canines were twice as long as an average person's, and looked as though they'd been filed to a point.

"Was that your lightning bolt?" He murmured, tracing the curves of the woman's cheek with one hand. When Agni did not reply, he turned around to see her standing still, her eyes flooded with tears.

"If it was, you probably saved my life," he murmured, rising and walking to her.

Agni let out a loud sob and collapsed onto his chest. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her as she cried; the girl sobbing into his arms hardly resembled the self-assured, flirtatious young woman he had spoken with earlier that day.

"I didn't mean to… k-kill her!" Agni said between heaving breaths, once her tears had subsided somewhat.

"First time taking a life, wasn't it," Jakt said quietly - not really a question, as he could tell the answer. He felt Agni nod anyway, rustling the scales of his jerkin. _This armor can't be very comfortable to cry into_ , he thought to himself, but the girl did not seem to mind.

Jakt tried to think back to the first time he had ever killed, but found it too distant to recall. He'd been younger than she, had probably done it out of self-preservation or necessity, but any sort of specifics eluded his tired memory. His failure to remember left him feeling a little disconcerted - not because he hadn't, but rather because of how little it mattered to him that he couldn't.

Killing had become a necessary evil early on in his life. Though he tried hard not to take lives that did not deserve to be taken, all too often circumstances arose that forced him to do so. In Skyrim he had found a culture that more or less felt the same way: although he stood out from his kin in many ways, his willingness to kill was not one of them. A somewhat disturbing thought, it was best forgotten.

Eventually, Agni drew away, wiping her eyes on the overlarge sleeves of her robes as she walked over to examine the corpse. Jakt followed, unsure of what to say to make her feel better.

"Look at her teeth," he said as Agni bent down over the body. The apprentice magician complied, opening the woman's mouth ever so slightly. With a gasp, she turned back to Jakt; curiosity and intrigue had replaced the shock and tumult so recently set in her face.

"A vampire?" She asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Do you recognize her?'

Agni looked back down at the corpse; she was silent for a long moment.

"She does look... familiar," the wizard's apprentice finally said, with some reluctance. "Falion may know more."

"She seemed to be controlling the beast somehow," Jakt mused.

He looked down at Agni when she did not reply: the young woman was looking at him, her expression one of confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

Jakt recoiled slightly. "The horse demon?"

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, her features drifting from bewilderment to skepticism. Some depraved part of Jakt found her expression hopelessly attractive.

"Don't look at me like that, girl," he said, pushing those flagitious thoughts to the back of his brain. "I know what I saw. Some sort of... monster in the mists, that spoke with just its thoughts; pitch black and in the shape of a stallion. Must have been almost twice as tall as a man. It was standing right behind her, just as your bolt found its mark in her face."

Anguish flashed across her face at the mention of the woman's death; Jakt felt a pang of guilt for his callous words. She stood and crossed her arms in front of her chest, shifting her weight to one leg.

"All I saw," she began, a hint of derision in her voice, "Was a lonely little man on his knees before a beautiful woman who was quite naked. As far as I could tell, there wasn't any demon horse egging her on, but it certainly sounds that you're damned lucky I saw fit to intervene."

Jakt backed off a little, placing his palms out in a peaceful gesture. "Alright. I'm sorry for my words." He paused. "Are you sure you didn't see it? Or hear it, for that matter? Its cry was… loud, to say the least."

Agni stared hard at him for a moment, then shook her head.

"There was nothing there but the two of you."

Jakt frowned, resisting the urge to curse. He'd seen and done plenty of odd things in his time - held court with legends, done battle with demigods and struck deals with demons - but despite all the craziness he'd lived through he was pretty sure his sanity remained more or less intact.  
"Whatever it was," he pondered aloud, "There must have been some reason only I could see it."

"Kelpie," muttered Agni, scratching her chin.

"Maybe."

"Or maybe you've lost your mind," the young apprentice said, a sly smile slowly forming on her lips, "It wouldn't be the first time a man threw away his lucidity in pursuit of a woman."

Something in Jakt's brain clicked. He stared at her for a moment, realization dawning upon him. Judging by her smug features, Agni had arrived there before he did.

"You mean," he said slowly, "Hroggar?"

"It has to be connected," she answered him, looking back at the corpse and crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Why else would he do what he did?"

"She was at Helgi's gravesite," Jakt said. He felt a giddy sense of excitement building within his chest, chasing away the gloom.

"Who?"

"Hroggar's daughter. The, ah, vampire, she wouldn't tell me anything when I confronted her, but I think she was the one who started the fire. She must have felt some remorse, felt the need to pay her respects at the girl's grave… or something like that"

"How do you know all that?" Agni's tone was skeptical, one dark eyebrow arched.

"I - " he faltered, unsure of how best to explain the vision he had received from the revenant of Helgi's shattered soul. "I just have a feeling."

"In any case, we aren't going to get any answers from her," Agni said, "We ought to be getting back. Perhaps Falion or someone else in town might identify the body."

Jakt grunted in reply, bending down to retrieve the corpse. It was cold and dry to the touch, giving off a faint, earthy odor, not quite the putrid stench of decay, but definitely reminiscent of a morgue - or a crypt.

"I think you ought to wrap her up first," Agni said. He looked over to see her holding the woman's black robes; like everything else in the Drajkmyr, they were streaked with mud. He nodded, taking the garment and wrapping it awkwardly around the body, concealing the the corpse's discernable features in an oblong, formless shroud of black. Once it was fully wrapped, he gingerly bent down, lifted with his legs - still a little sore from the chase through the marsh - and pulled the body over his shoulder. It was not heavy.

"Hurry up!" Agni had already started forward, opening up a distance between them; wisps of fog had already begun to snake about her calves, obscuring them from his view. Jakt took a few wobbly steps after her before settling into a steady stride, all the while trying hard not to think about how the residents of Morthal might react to a freshly-killed vampire corpse dumped in their main square.


	3. The Mob's Justice

9

The faint light of predawn shone through the slight veneer of rough-spun cotton that stretched across his bedroom window when the clang of Morthal's bell jolted Soren awake. Disoriented, rubbing sleep from his eyes, he listened, identifying a low murmur that accompanied the rhythmic toll. It was clear that some sort of commotion had roused the town. Soren felt a pang of unease - the cast-iron bells of the Twin Candles, old and cracked as they were, seldom rang.

He sat up, brushed aside the curtain and squinted through the window. The glass was poorly made, distorting the scene, but Soren could still see the press of bodies, perhaps half of Morthal's small population, all gathered in the town square, facing the Moorside Inn. Their voices had grown steadily louder, and Soren thought he could make out a note of panic in the hub-bub.

Then he saw the smoke.

He bolted upright, pulled on his trousers, boots, and wool jerkin and dashed down the stairs, not bothering to wake Gran. He wrenched open the door to Gran's cottage and realized immediately the source of the blaze - it was the inn. His heart plummeted; he stood for a moment, slack-jawed, watching his main source of livelihood go up in smoke, before springing to action.

The fire had yet to spread through the town, but had engulfed the tavern in its entirety: it was practically the most flammable structure in all of Morthal, made of ancient birch, kept warm and hospitable at all times. Despite their panic, the inhabitants had sprung into action to quench it. Luckily for them, water was not a scarce resource in the swamp. The townsfolk had quickly produced buckets and formed several lines from the edge of the slow-moving river to the tavern, an easy distance. Soren wasted no time in joining in, filling out a gap in one of the human chains, scanning the crowd as he did so. He saw Jonna up in front, covered in soot, shouting words of encouragement through clenched teeth; several of the Moorside Inn's regulars worked behind and beside her. He did not count the stranger, Jakt, among them.

Preoccupied, he nearly dropped the first bucket as it was shoved into his hands; with a grunt, he planted his feet and passed the precious cargo forward, reminding himself as he did so that he had not seen Jakt return the night before. After speaking with the mercenary he had returned to work the evening shift at the inn; the regular customers had petered out early, and Jonna had let him go home soon after.

Just then, the roof began to buckle and strain. The fire must have reached the central beam, Soren realized, his spirit progress the fire-fighting team had made was for naught - without the central beam to spread the load, the heavy slate roof would soon collapse. He felt a hail of tiny embers, rock chips, and splinters sprinkle down on his head as wood struts began to fracture and split.

The building heaved and groaned like a dying animal; its walls, licked by flame, warped under the weight of the heavy roof. Soren stole a glance at Jonna: she had put out her hands at her sides and was backing up, her eyes heavy with dread as she ushered her diligent helpers back to a safer distance. The leader of Soren's line began to do the same; the sound of fracturing wood echoed the cries of dismay as the men and women fighting the fire realized what was happening.

A burst of heat rolled off the building, singing his skin, and he knew the moment had come. Soren stumbled backwards as the building imploded; the walls collapsed inward as the roof caved. He threw his arms up to protect his face from the splinters and shards of glass that followed the collapse, and felt a sharp pain as a fragment of something heavy struck him in the abdomen.

The building's ruin halted the fire momentarily; thick shingles from the disintegrated roof coated the site, partially smothering the flames. Soren saw Jonna, her eyes flushed with tears, arms and face raw with cuts and burns, turn to the crowd and appeal to them to redouble their efforts to extinguish the blaze.

Soren felt anger welling up within his body. He rejoined the line and begun to pass the heavy wood buckets with renewed vigor. More of Morthal's inhabitants had rushed to join them; they began to beat the fire back, scouring it inch by inch from the collapsed structure.

As their efforts began to slow and the last flames were extinguished, Soren's mind began to wander. How had the fire started? Jonna was no fool - she would let no open flame keep overnight. She had owned the inn for more than a decade, was careful and shrewd in her stewardship. Sifting through the coals and debris, carefully quenching any threatening embers, they found no trace of human remains. Everyone had gotten out, thank the Eight.

The men and women of Morthal began to fan out, exhausted from the ordeal, eager to return to their homes and rest. Soren found a barstool, somewhat singed but otherwise miraculously undamaged, set it up next to the wreckage of the bar and sank into it. The early morning sun shone down on the scene, illuminating the wreckage in a beacon of false warmth, and he felt a rush of misery.

Jonna walked over to him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Blood from an open wound on her hand smudged his shirt, but her touch was comforting. Though she often disguised it behind a prickly exterior, there were moments when her nurturing disposition shone through. She was about to speak when sounds of another commotion reached his ears.

"What is it now?" she asked, her voice cracking, as she turned towards the crowd, which had once again began to assemble in the square, near the eastern gate. After a moment, Soren forced himself upright and followed her wordlessly.

A horseshoe-shaped gaggle of townsfolk had formed around a focal point, two figures that Soren could not quite make out. He recognized several of Morthal's guardsmen among them, out of uniform, but tall and imposing nonetheless. The mood of the crowd was restless and jumpy; they had just borne witness to a fiery assault on their home, and many had the burns to show for it. Currents of anger rippled through their pressed bodies, their low murmurs promising retribution.

Soren elbowed his way to the front, ignoring the curses as he did so, trying to get a look at the interlopers. Once there, he recognized them immediately.

Jakt stood in front, dressed in his patchwork coat of armor, his sword belted to his waist. Slightly behind him, drawn up next to his shoulder, was the wizard's apprentice, Agni. Streaks of mud stained their clothing. Agni's expression was anxious, her jaw clenched; her arm was twisted around the man's upper arm. Jakt's features were passive, neutral, giving away nothing. He stood still as a stone, with the exception of his searching eyes, which swept back and forth along his audience. In his arms he cradled a large bundle, a misshapen lump draped with dark cloth. Protruding ever so slightly from underneath the shroud, hanging next to the man's knees, Soren could make out four slender fingers, white as bone. It was not difficult to guess what lay underneath the black fabric.

The crowd parted to allow several bulky townsmen step forward. Soren recognized them dimly as the men who worked at the lumber mill; the skin on their hands and forearms was gnarled from long years of hard labor. One of them stepped in front of the posse. He had shoulder-length hair, red-orange in color, and a thrice-broken nose on his ruddy, bearded face. His name was Jorgen, and Soren knew him a little: charismatic and well-liked, a respected voice in the community. He liked Jorgen fine, but the lumber-man had a tendency to prod and tease Soren, no doubt in a manner he considered good-natured, but in a way that occasionally stung. An old battleaxe was tucked into his his belt; so too were the others in his entourage armed. Soren's mouth went dry at the sight.

"Strange happenings plague Morthal of late," Jorgen began, addressing the crowd. They immediately quieted, receptive to his words. "Two fires in nary a week. Hroggar's poor family was taken from him, and now our chief place of respite stolen from us as well!" He clapped his hand on the back of a lanky, middle-aged man at his side who had grimaced and looked down at the mention of the first fire. It was indeed Hroggar; Soren turned back to Jakt, saw the mercenary's eyes flick over to regard the man, a tight frown appearing on his face.

"Strange times indeed," the ringleader echoed, half-raising a hand as if to address the gathering. Soren saw several of its members nod in agreement. "And now an outsider forces his way into our midst, an honorless sellsword no less, who has taken up with the sorcerer's pet! Make no mistake, brothers and sisters," Jorgen continued, "This is no coincidence!"

Jeers sounded from the throng, shouts of anger and derision directed at the pair. Agni balked audibly, but Soren saw Jakt turn and murmur something to her that quieted her. Then he stepped forward.

"People of Morthal," he began, trying his best to speak over the din. His voice was not as deep as Jorgen's, which did not help his attempt at authority. "Your town is infected with a virus, a plague that threatens – "

"Show us the body!" One of Jorgen's compatriots interrupted him, pointing an accusatory finger at the lifeless bundle in Jakt's arms. "Show us what you have wrought, criminal!"

The townsfolk shouted their agreement, a loud, wordless echo. Soren could feel the press of bodies fizzle and crack with restless energy. The people or Morthal were scared, and Soren certainly understood that fear, but Jorgen was taking hold of the reigns and whipping them into spurious motion. He glanced around, looking for a drop of reason in a sea of vehemence, and caught Jonna's eye; her brow, like his, was furrowed with worry.

Jakt was trapped. The crowd was one step away from baying for his blood; there was nothing he could do but place the bundle on the ground and unwrap it. Agni stood behind him, clenching and unclenching her fists as he did so.

A hush fell over the mob as he pulled away the cloak. Soren and the rest of the spectators craned to see. He only caught a short glimpse, but his intuition had been right: it was the body of a woman, gaunt and pale, her shiny dark hair glinting in the morning sun. The townsfolk resumed their murmurs in a more subdued fashion, their fervor somewhat deflated. Soren wondered why that was - whether it was the presence of death that had cowed them, or that they simply could not recognize the body. Soren certainly couldn't.

Suddenly there came a cry from somewhere to Soren's left. He felt the push of bodies as the throng parted to allow someone through. A shortish, barrel-chested man burst forth from the ranks; It was Thonnir, the town mason, a kind, somewhat melancholy man. His baby-blue eyes filled with moisture as he dropped to his knees next to the dead woman and gathered her body in his meaty arms.

"Laelette," he gasped, tears on his cheeks as he cupped her lifeless features in one hand. "My Laelette."

The townsfolk were quiet as he turned to face Jakt and Agni. "You've killed her," he said, his tone more astonished than accusatory.

"It wasn't - " Agni began, her eyes too filled with tears, "I didn't mean - "

But Thonnir did not wait to hear her reply, merely turned away, gathered the frail corpse of his wife in his arms, and stood. The crowd parted respectfully for him as he left; Soren watched his back, bent and trembling with sorrow, as he melted away into the morning mist. Agni made as if to go after him, but Jakt stopped her with a firm hand. Something had solidified in the sellsword's face; he seemed to understand what would happen next. Soren felt a wave of nausea wash over him; he resisted the urge to retch.

The lumbermen turned back to Jakt and Agni with renewed purpose. Once again, Jorgen pointed an accusatory finger towards the two, this time making Agni his focus.

"The truth is laid bare," he began, his clear, booming voice quieting the murmurs of conspiracy from within the ranks of his audience, "The wizard's whelp has murdered one of our kin to use in her vile necromancy! Now she seeks sanctuary behind the only soul who might listen to her twisted pleas - an outsider who knows nothing of her treachery!"

Soren groaned as the gaggle began to jeer and heckle once more, their cries blending into a chorus of threats.

"Witch!" "Murderer!"

"She started the fire!"

"Lock her up! She should burn, just like the Inn she set!"

"You need not protect her further, stranger," Jorgen continued, a note of empathy replacing fiery accusation in his tone. "Turn away from her thrall. Hand her over to face the Jarl's justice, and you may depart unmolested."

Tears streamed down Agni's cheeks: she clutched at Jakt with desperation, as if caught in a storm with only he to serve as her anchor. Jakt seemed to be weathering the abuse of the throng with a sort of chilly ease; Soren found his calm disturbing.

"Is this how the Jarl's justice is upheld in Morthal?" Jakt finally asked, his voice quieter now, his body still as stone. His body faced Jorgen, but his eyes were locked onto someone else in the gallery. Soren followed his gaze to its target: a large man, dressed in Morthal green and a mail cuirass, unarmed but unmistakably one of the guardsman. The man scowled at Jakt's gaze and made as if to turn away. Soren understood what the gesture meant: the guard would do nothing to disperse the mob. After all, several of the lumbermen worked shifts as guardsmen, and a close camaraderie existed between them.

"This is your last chance! Hand over the girl and let the law be served!" Jorgen placed a hand on the head of the axe tucked into his belt. The tone of his voice was even-handed, but Soren got a distinct sense that he was itching to use his weapon.

Jakt's reply was chilling. He said nothing, but instead reached down to his sword belt and unbuckled it. The men and women of Morthal went deathly quiet as he spread his feet and raised his sword. But to Soren's surprise, he did not unsheathe the blade: instead, he held it awkwardly in front of his torso, one hand on the hilt and the other at the base of its scuffed leather scabbard, keeping the sheathe from slipping off. Uncertain murmurs from those around him echoed Soren's confusion at the traveler's bizarre gesture.

Jorgen only laughed at the display. He had no such qualms with brandishing his own naked weapon, and made that clear: with an air of ease he drew forth his axe from his belt, spun it once in his palm, and tested its edge with one thumb. The lumbermen who bolstered him - four of them, including Hroggar - mimicked their leader, casually brandishing their motley assortment of weapons.

"Spread out," Jorgen murmured, "Let's make this qui-"

But before he could finish his sentence, Jakt dashed forward and walloped him full in the face with the tip of his sheathed sword. The crowd gasped in surprise as Jorgen stumbled backwards. Quicker than Jorgen's men could retaliate, practically quicker than Soren could blink, Jakt had returned to his place in front of Agni. She looked almost as confused by the swift attack as did Jorgen, who had regained his footing and was clutching his jaw with one hand.

"You bastard!" he choked, working his tongue in his mouth and then spitting out two of his teeth, "You'll pay for that! Boys!"

Jorgen's compatriots needed no prompt. Hoisting their weapons, they spread out and advanced on Jakt and Agni, closing the distance in a manner that was quick and deliberate. Although they held the numerical advantage, and Jakt had kept his blade sheathed, they seemed reluctant to engage him at once. The crowd's excitement had steadily built, however; they began to call and jeer once more. The pressure to act soon overcame the mill-workers' reservations.

Encouraged by their onlookers, two of the men - one armed with a rusty mace, the other with a simple woodcutter's axe - rushed at Jakt, their weapons held high. Jakt reached a hand out behind him and gave Agni a shove, sending her stumbling backwards with a yelp, and stepped forward to engage his attackers. His feet moving like a dancer's, he weaved easily around the first man's clumsy charge, elbowed him in the back to send him careening forward, and then ducked the second's haphazard horizontal chop. Wielding his weapon more like a polearm than a sword, he brought his weapon around and thunked the axe-wielder on the right temple with the pommel. The man's tongue lolled out his mouth and his eyes went cross; just like that, he dropped to the mud, with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

The other man had regained his footing by the time his friend went down. He gave a yowl of surprise, motioned with a big fist for the rest of his comrades to attack, then rushed back into the fray, leading with his mace raised high. Before he could even bring it down, Jakt floated sideways and smacked him in the face with the flat of his scabbard. As the man reeled from the disorienting strike, the sellsword brought the blade around to smash him again in the side of his ribcage. Soren heard a crunch as the blow connected; the man wailed like a drowning cat and doubled over, curling up in the dirt.

The crowd gave a collective groan - the outsider had dispatched two of their champions in a matter of seconds. Jorgen's features had slackened in surprise, but after the second man fell he rallied his stalwarts.

"Come now lads!" he beckoned, wiping at the blood that seeped from his nose, "As one! We have the odds!"

Hroggar and the other man, a burly Nord wearing a fur cap with conspicuous earflaps and armed with a simple iron sword, pressed forward and spread out. Perhaps they were unnerved at the sight of their downed comrades, or flustered by the pressure from the crowd, but to Soren they seemed jumpy and uncertain. Jakt circled back to face them and raised his sheathed weapon once more. He seemed remarkably at peace for one doling out such a beating: his movements were fluid, effortless, his footwork precise. He allowed them to flank him on three sides and betrayed no worry or care, his expression calm and poised. From safely behind him, Agni watched with a mixture of worry and wonder.

"Charge him!"

Jorgen raised his axe and rushed forward in a haphazard charge. His two friends did likewise, hefting their weapons and stepping forward to attack. Jakt recognized Jorgen's attack for the feint it was; when the lumberjack, seemingly at the last moment, halted his charge, spun like a top and attacked from his other side, the mercenary had already slipped around him, smacking the man hard in his rear with the flat of his leather scabbard.

Jorgen gave a cry that bordered on a squeal and shuffled forward, dropping his axe to tend to his bruised buttocks. Jakt turned his attention away from the humiliated man just in time to parry a measured lunge from Earflaps and dodge a clumsy swipe from Hroggar's weapon, a weathered plowshare. Jakt was clearly accustomed to fighting two people at once. He kept himself at the very edge of their reach, his feet moving faster than Soren could follow them, his sword humming as he twirled and waved it in a series of showy flourishes designed to keep his opponents unbalanced. If Soren didn't know better, he might have thought that Jakt was enjoying himself. Perhaps he was.

Jorgen rejoined the fight with a throaty roar, axe back in hand, putting an end to Jakt's flashy display. No doubt the welt forming on Jorgen's rear, in addition to his bloodied nose, had lent him new cause for anger: a deadly snarl decorated his face, and his every chop of his axe was a savage affair. Bolstered by their leader, Jakt's other two assailants followed suit, redoubling their efforts and coordinating their movements better. For a moment the mercenary seemed outmatched. He struggled to parry and dodge their blows; his calm expression began to crack under the strain of keeping ahead of their attacks. The spectators began to cheer for the lumbermen once more, their enthusiasm building at the sight of blood.

It took Jakt scarcely a minute to dash their hopes. He saw his opening and took it: Jorgen had drifted a bit too close to Hroggar, and with a quick, precise jab he overbalanced the ringleader and send him crashing into his comrade. With the two momentarily tangled, he turned his attention to Earflaps, parrying the man's awkward strike with a vicious riposte that sent his sword wide and low, burying its tip in the mud. Jakt relinquished his two-handed grip and swung his gauntleted left arm up in a brutal backhand that caught Earflaps on the side of the jaw. The man gave a yowl and let go his weapon, reflexively raising his arm to protect his face; Jakt whirled his sword back up and smashed it into the man's side, just below his armpit. There was a wet, sickening thud as the strike landed that made Soren wince.

Earflaps' eyes went wide; a tiny sound escaped his pinched mouth. He dropped to his knees, moaning, clutching at his torso. Jakt regarded him for half a second, his lips pursed, casually twirling his weapon in one hand; it looked as though he was deciding whether or not another strike would be necessary.

The decision was taken away from him when Jorgen and Hroggar, having untangled themselves, rushed back towards him. Jakt engaged them with newfound vigor, nimbly dodging a vicious swipe from Hroggar's plowshare in order to turn away Jorgen's axe. He countered by slamming his shoulder-pauldron into Jorgen's sternum, knocking the breath from his chest; the burly lumberman melted backwards, gasping like a fish out of water, leaving Jakt free to engage Hroggar one-on-one.

He made quick work of Hroggar, dispatching the lanky logger with ease. A diagonal swipe of Hroggar's impromptu weapon was not fast enough to catch the mercenary; Jakt evaded the attack with a showy pirouette, his sword tucked in close to his body. Bringing it around, he slammed the sheathed blade into the side of Hroggar's knee. Soren heard a faint _pop!_ and heard several people in the audience cringe. Hroggar gave a cry and buckled; Jakt aimed a well-timed boot at Hroggar's back as he fell, sending him sprawling away and out of the fight as he fell.

Jakt turned back to Earflaps, who had managed to get to his feet. The lumberman clutched his sword tightly in one trembling hand, the other cradling his ribcage; judging by his ragged breathing, not to mention his pained expression, Jakt had broken several of his ribs.

Jakt regarded him for a moment, one eyebrow raised. The man shuffled forward, groaning with the effort, but did not press for an attack. Jakt took a slow step towards him, flourishing his sheathed blade once more, a wry smile spreading across his face. Earflaps' lips started to tremble; Soren could have sworn, in that minute, that he heard the man whimper.

"Lay down your blade," the mercenary spoke, his voice low, laced with menace, "And drop to the mud. Else I'll put you there the hard way."

Earflaps remained standing; he shook his head no, a gesture utterly without conviction. Jakt gave an inaudible sigh and drew nearer. The audience had begun to jeer and scream once more - but Soren could not tell who was their target of their exuberance this time.

But Jakt's victory was not yet complete. Perhaps it was the din of the spectators - some of whom had switched sides to cheer for him, no less - or perhaps the mercenary had allowed his confidence to get the better of him. In either case, Jakt did not notice that Jorgen had risen to stand, pausing only to pluck a wicked-looking dagger from his boot, and begun to pad towards him, his profile hunched. The crowd gave a roar - mostly of excitement, with some trepidation mixed in - as Jorgen lunged forward with his knife raised. Their sudden surge in enthusiasm managed to snap Jakt out of his victorious mood; he was in the midst of coming about when Jorgen struck, burying his knife in the traveler's upper back.

Jakt's cry of pain was barely audible over Jorgen's bellow of triumph, a considerable amount of noise that the crowd was happy to echo. But Jakt was far from finished: before Jorgen could turn or twist the embedded blade, the mercenary slipped away from him, jerking the hilt free of the lumber-man's grasp.

Soren got a glimpse of Jakt's face: his eyes had gone wide and deadly, his mouth a thin line. The injury - along with the eagerness of the crowd to see him injured - seemed to unlock his rage. The spectators' eager cries faltered as he grasped the scabbard just under the hilt and yanked it off his sword. The naked blade shimmered in the morning light.

Jorgen had gathered up his axe. Soren thought he caught a flash of worry on the man's face, but it disappeared as he went on the offensive, swinging the weapon in long, wide arcs designed to keep Jakt at a distance, following through on his swings with surprising quickness considering the weight of his axe. Despite the knife still buried in his back, Jakt made dodging his blows look like a form of art, gamely avoiding each swipe while keeping his sword tight, biding his time for a chance to strike. His face was frozen in a grimace, his gaze sharper than a dagger. At one point, the man with the earflaps and the broken ribs looked as though he might join back in, but one nasty glance from Jakt - made right after twisting away from one of Jorgen's clumsy swipes and coupled with an artful twirl of his blade - was enough to convince him otherwise.

Jorgen began to grow frustrated, his swings growing faster and ever more unhinged. He feinted right and struck left, catching Jakt off balance; with a grunt of panic the mercenary got his sword up just in time. There was an ear-splitting clang as the weapons met, and the heavy blow sent Jakt's blade out wide; he took an awkward step backwards to compensate for the force of the blow that left his legs awkwardly positioned, his right foot twisted behind his left.

With a shout of glee, Jorgen swung his battleaxe overhead and then brought it down towards his off-kilter quarry in a vicious downward chop. But Jakt recovered with a quickness that was almost superhuman, swiveling around on his back foot and bringing his sword up to parry. With a graceful angled motion he caught the brunt of Jorgen's blow, sliding it far out to his left. Removing one hand from his blade, Jakt jabbed the newly freed fist into Jorgen's lower belly. The lumberman grunted in pain; off balance and winded, he disengaged his axe and awkwardly brought it back forward in a clumsy, one-handed jab, only to find that Jakt had sidestepped him. The mercenary brought his sword up in a vicious uppercut that struck true, lopping off Jorgen's overextended axe arm at the elbow.

Jorgen gave a keening howl and fell to his knees; blood spurted from his stump, sprinkling those spectators closest to him in a thousand droplets of red. The mob followed Jorgen's pained knell with pandemonium of their own, shoving and shouting in anger and alarm. The clamorous ensemble filled Soren's ears, greatly contributing to his building headache. Jakt whipped the point of his sword to Jorgen's throat, and the lumberman's scream became a frightened gurgle; the mercenary's eyes flashed with deadly intent.

"Don't kill him!" Soren heard himself scream, knowing instinctively that if Jakt's blade slipped and found its mark the crowd would rush forward and tear him to shreds; such was the malicious energy that pulsed through its writhing constituents. Before this could come to pass, however, a welcome cacophony filled the morning air: the metallic thump of steel on iron, and the clank and rustle of armored boots.

The spectators parted as Morthal's town guard, who had apparently decided enough was enough, shoved and pushed them aside, all the while beating their weapons against their shields in an effort to quell the din. A trio of them surrounded Jakt and the downed Jorgen, while the rest fanned out and pushed the crowd outwards.

Soren was stout, strong for his age, but he could not stand against the jostling bodies as the guardsmen forced them away from the scene. He caught a glimpse of Jakt lowering his sword; he felt relief rush through his veins, and let himself be carried away from the scene by the momentum of the dispersing crowd. He looked back again once the press of townsfolk had thinned out and saw one man tending to Jorgen, while two more led Jakt away from the scene, his hands held behind him as if bound. One of the guardsmen aimed a vicious kick at the mercenary's backside, sending him stumbling forward, pursued by a gaggle of harsh laughter. Soren's uncertainty returned – many men in the guard called Jorgen friend. What they might do to Jakt, he could only fathom.

* * *

10

Of all the Jarls' longhouses that Jakt had seen, Highmoon Hall was the least impressive, inside and out. The guardsmen led him in through the low doorway from the entry into the main hall, a wide-open room that was lit by goat horn sconces; a long bed of fire, perpendicular to the entrance, bisected the room, providing further light and much-needed heat. At the far end of the hall, beyond the firebed, sat the throne. It was crudely furnished, carved from blue-grey stone and draped with fur, no doubt to make it more comfortable. The walls were decorated with dark-green drapery depicting Morthal's spiral giving the room a somber, spooky air. Several stuffed mudcrabs, mounted on the east wall, compounded the building's peculiar decor. The building itself had none of the arched, flowing charm of the Blue Palace in Solitude, or the domineering and defiant architecture of Dragonsreach in Whiterun; it was little more than a glorified log cabin. But at least it was warm.

The Jarl was nowhere to be seen. After a perplexed minute, the leader of the guards, a middle-aged Nord with impressive mustaches, bade Jakt and his men follow; he led them off into one of the wings, through a doorway in one side of the hall. The room looked to be a garrison of sorts - weapon racks lined the perimeter, holding a scattered assortment of steel arms. One wall was decorated with a big canvas map of Hjaalmarch and, next to it, a larger one of Skyrim. Jakt squinted hard at the map of his homeland: he could just barely make out faded ink, red and blue, old battle lines from the war.

Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone II was seated at the table in the middle of the room, an open book before her and a quill in her left hand. She looked up as the short parade of guardsmen entered the room, her eyes briefly meeting Jakt's. Approaching middle age, she was a severe-looking woman, with pale skin and dark brown hair, braided on both sides and blending into the furred collar at her neck. Her thick doublet was a rich forest green, but otherwise rather plain; a small bronze circlet, inlaid with a noticeably flawed emerald, adorned her forehead, the only ornamental aspect or her otherwise subdued raiment. Jakt knew her only by reputation, and the words of others were seldom kind to the younger Ravencrone. He had a feeling that his perception would soon be proven correct.

"You must be Jakt," the Jarl sniffed, turning back down to her book and hastily scribbling out the rest of the sentence she'd been working on. She shut the book delicately and placed her quill in is inkwell before standing slowly and turning to regard him, crossing her arms as she looked him up and down.

"I dislike brigands and sellswords," she began, her words directed at Jakt, but her wandering gaze never focusing on anyone in particular. "Morthal is a quiet place, and normally those of your ilk cut us a wide berth. What brought you to us? What possessed you to cause such a scene as this morning's?"

Jakt shrugged his shoulders - an awkward gesture, given that his hands were bound behind him - and was immediately reminded that there was a dagger still lodged in his upper back. If Jarl Idgrod noticed his pained expression, she did not betray it.

"Your own court wizard hired me to look into a matter – frankly one I thought beneath me. But not anymore, my Jarl. Morthal is beset by something sinister."

"Surely not much is beneath one such as yourself," the Jarl quipped, a weasley smile playing about her lips. She paused, and her tone grew more serious. "Falion seems to think as you do, but I have less patience for his antics than my mother did. Whether or not these fires were accidents, pranks gone awry, or something more serious and suspect is no more concern of yours."

She took a step towards him in a manner that she most likely intended to be threatening before she opened her mouth to continue.

"You have - "

"Pardon me, my Jarl," Jakt interrupted, "but Falion is correct in his suspicions _._ That corpse - the woman we brought back - she was a vampire. Who knows what others masquerade as one of your folk. The time for inquiries and investigations is done - I urge you to _act._ "

Idgrod seemed taken aback at his insolence, but she recovered quickly; adopting a tilted eyebrow, she let the room sink into an uncomfortable silence before she finally responded.

"You've some nerve to come in here and tell me how to rule my family's ancestral hold."

"I didn't exactly come here by choice," Jakt interjected, turning slightly and gesturing with his bound hands. He knew it was a mistake to speak out of turn - Idgrod's fuse, it seemed, was short indeed - but he could not help himself. The adrenaline of battle had worn away, leaving his body and mind exhausted, and he had no patience for petty theatrics.

" _Regardless_ ," Idgrod's tone was firm, "You have caused Morthal nothing but trouble. Until the guard has looked into the matter fully it is useless to speculate. I'm certainly not going to trust the word of a sellsword."

"The girl," Jakt said, desperation creeping up his spine, "She'll support all of it."

Idgrod raised an eyebrow, a snide smile playing about her lips. "The mageling? Hardly a trustworthy voice, considering her master's position on this matter."

"Your people were after her blood. If I hadn't been there they would have given her over to the mob."

Idgrod's eyes flashed.

"You dare to question the character of Morthal?" As she spoke, she reared her head in outrage that Jakt suspected was largely for show. "We are no common rabble - we do not lynch like highwaymen. The girl is under my protection, interloper, as are the citizens of Morthal, who long only for tranquil lives – a tranquility that has very much been threatened as of late. And as far I as I can tell, the largest threat right now is _you_."  
She allowed herself a moment to calm down; in his periphery Jakt could the guardsmen to his left and right nodding their heads and murmuring their agreement. After a moment, Idgrod shook her head and continued. "This charade must cease; it is a matter for the guard now. But I want you out of my city, brigand. By nightfall. Thank the Eight that I am merciful – in another hold, you might be hanged for your transgressions."

Jakt fought the urge to curse at her. So the rumors were correct - Idgrod had inherited none of her mother's foresight, it seemed.

"Gorm," Idgrod said, looking to the mustached guard captain at Jakt's right, "See him out. By sundown, he had best be gone - else you have my permission to chase him out."

She turned back to Jakt, a nasty smile wormed its way across her face. "And add his sword to the garrison armory. I'm fairly confident that somewhere he hasn't been paying his taxes."

A flash of red-hot anger cut through Jakt's malaise. That sword was his life, his livelihood, not to mention a priceless keepsake gifted to him by an old friend.

"You're making a mistake." Jakt's calm tone belied the loathing he felt towards Idgrod at that moment. "That sword has a powerful enchantment. It would be very dangerous were anyone but I to wield it."

"Then it should fetch quite a sum. Consider your civic debt paid," countered the Jarl. She waved her hand dismissively, putting an end to the subject.

The guardsmen grabbed him by the shoulder and motioned for him to move towards the door. The impulse to shout and struggle tugged hard at his resolve: he yearned to use the Voice to free himself, to seek vengeance on this foolish, shortsighted Jarl, responsible as she was for the lives of trusting innocents. But he had learned long ago not to reveal himself in such a manner. In the years past, Skyrim had learned once more to fear and hate dragons – and those who might use their power just the same.

At least the guardsmen took the time to cut his bounds before they shoved him from the threshold of High-Moon Hall and into the mud. His wound stung with the impact, the dagger still lodged in his back, rattling against his scale jerkin as he hit the ground. He groaned in pain, trying to compose himself; the mud was cool against one cheek. He felt some of the animosity begin to leave him, seeping into the earth, apathy filling the void it left. _Who cares about this gods-forsaken town?_

"Up you get," came a familiar female voice. He felt hands at his side, bading him to rise; he complied, raising his head. It was Agni. The girl looked every bit as worn and tired as he felt.

"I see you've met her ladyship," Agni's words, taught and clipped as usual, did not completely mask the concern in her eyes. "You see now why Morthal is such a popular destination."

She moved to put her arm around Jakt to support him, but bumped up against the hilt of the knife sticking out of his back and sending a jagged bolt of pain across his upper back.

"Shor's trousers," she said, noticing his grimace and dropping all pretense of unconcern. "They didn't even offer to treat you?"

"Not very hospitable, your Jarl," Jakt answered, gritting his teeth.

"We've got to have this removed and cleaned," Agni said sternly. "Else it's going to fester."

"Better hurry. The Jarl wants me out of town by sundown."

Agni switched sides, gingerly offering herself as a crutch; Jakt wasn't so hurt that he need her help to walk, but he welcomed her support all the same. She led him back towards her hut. Other than the occasional whisper and glare, the townsfolk were too preoccupied to give them much trouble.

The warmth of the wizard's hut fell upon Jakt like a cleansing summer rain. Agni led him through the foyer and the main hall to the greenhouse. Seating him on a chair in the middle of the room, she strode back into the hut. Jakt fumbled with his gauntlets, removing his bracers and gloves before moving on to tug at the leather straps at his shoulders that held his jerkin tight against his body. His fingers felt thick and unwieldy, like uncooked sausages.

"That's not going to come off until this thing is out," Agni said as she walked back in. She had changed out of her traveling robes into the simple green dress that Jakt has seen her wearing the day before - a welcome sight to his exhausted eyes. In her hands was a rucksack.

"Hold still," Agni murmured, circling behind him and placing one hand on his back and the other on the hilt of the knife. "I can't tell how deep it is - you might start to bleed rather heavily."

"Believe it or not, I've been stabbed before."

Agni ignored his retort, yanking the knife out in one clean motion. Jakt felt a spurt of sticky liquid run down his back, soaking his thick wool undershirt. He tried not to think about the life leaking out of him as he worked quickly to remove his armor, unbuckling his leather pauldrons before loosening the straps that secured his jerkin. With Agni's help, he drew the scale coat over his head. Slight nausea rippled through his stomach as he ripped off his shirt; it was wet with his blood.

"Bad?" he asked, through clenched teeth. Agni produced a linen cloth from her knapsack and pressed it to his back, applying pressure to the wound; the pain, sharp at first, quickly subsided.

"Not that bad," came her delayed reply, "A nasty cut, nothing more. Grazed your left shoulder blade."

"Nothing a little magic won't fix?" He looked over his shoulder to see Agni frowning.

"I'm not much practiced in Restoration," she admitted, "I might try something simple, but it's going to need some time to heal fully."

"No potions?"

Agni hesitated, met his eyes, and shook her head. "Falion's not one for alchemy, and the village herbalist doesn't much care for Falion, so I never really learned."

"I thought Morthal was known for its alchemies."

Agni just shrugged.

"Well, try something simple then," Jakt echoed her words, turning back to stare at his muddy boots and trying not to sound too disappointed. "I'll be your dummy."

Hesitantly, Agni removed the blood-soaked cravat from the wound; laying both hands on the cut, she whispered a stilted incantation. Jakt grunted; he had been healed with magic before, and it was never a pleasant process. He could hear skin hiss as it knitted itself back together, the torn muscles in his back pulsing in agony as they stretched and contorted themselves to join once more.

After a moment, Agni took her hands away; Jakt looked back at her to see her wipe her sweat-covered brow with the back of a bloody hand. Her shoulders shook ever so slightly, and he reminded himself once more that she was still very early in her magical development; no doubt the healing had taken much of her stamina, dwindled as it was from the turmoil of the last few hours.

"You'll have a scar, I'm afraid," she murmured, wiping her hands on a fresh cloth.

"Add it to the collection," he said, face breaking out into a wry smile. After twenty long years of battle and tumult, he had amassed quite a few. They decorated his torso, on full display.

He felt Agni trace the newly-ragged tissue with a soft fingertip, inspecting her work; then, moving quickly and deliberately, she bandaged the wound, tying a fresh cotton strip around his shoulder, under his arm and across his back.

As she finished tying it off, he reached up and caught her hand in his; he looked up, seeking her eyes.

"Thanks," he muttered. She blushed and looked away, but gave his hand a squeeze.

"What will you do now?"

"Leave this place," he said, a hard edge creeping into his tone. "I've had enough of this stinking town." He had no coin to his name, his travel gear had gone up in flames, and he had no idea how he might retrieve his sword – if it was even possible – but all of that mattered less to him than leaving as soon as he could.

"Jakt…" Her brow furrowed as worry crept into her tone. His resolve wavered as he remembered their morning tumult. Her fellow townsfolk had come awfully close to lynching her this morning: a terrible fear to live under, in your own home.

"You could come with me. You're fairly good with a spell, and too young to stay in one place."

"Falion was supposed to be back by now," Agni said. She ignored his remark, but continued to blush. "I don't feel... I can't…"

"Safe here?" Jakt finished for her. She nodded once, her frown deepening.

"Yes. But I can't leave, not yet. Stay - just for a little while."

Jakt was torn - he wanted desperately to be back on the road, to be freed from this town, its interminable mist and all its malaise. Morthal was sleepy enough that he might evade the guardsmen for a while, but it was also small enough that they could find him easily enough if Idgrod was as serious as she seemed. But before he could answer her, Agni rushed forward and pressed her lips to his.

It was a demure, cautious kiss - not the inexperienced kiss of a first-timer, but vulnerable in a similar way. He felt her tongue, soft and warm, slip inside his mouth as their lips parted.

After a moment, they broke apart; Jakt noticed with surprise that she had seated herself sideways on his lap. She leaned her head back to look at him, as if expecting something; her gaze flitted back and forth across his face, excitement with a dash of trepidation plastered on her pretty features.

"What is it about young women treating wounded men that gets them so worked up?" Jakt broke the silence, a slow grin forming on his lips; Agni cracked a smile, the tension broken.

"Is this what you save your sense of humor for? Moments like these?" As she spoke, Agni traced his right collarbone - the one not wrapped in bandages - with two fingers.

She did not let him answer; instead, she took his head in both hands, lacing her fingers through his hair, and brought her face to his once more. Her lips were lean and hungry this time, those of a predator who had waited long hours for a kill. After a moment she broke away and attacked his neck, planting a fevered kiss right below his beard at the base of his jaw. Blood pumped through his brain, roaring in his ears. He let out a gasp as his manhood stiffened and shot up, as though it had suddenly remembered it was late to an important rendezvous.

Evidently she felt him bump up against her flank, as she detached herself from his neck and withdrew; she looked down at him, her mouth forming a silent oh in an expression of mock surprise. Stretching out one leg high above his head, she swung it over his body in a smooth, graceful motion, straddling him; her dress rode up on her thighs, stopping just short of her undergarments. She angled her head to the right as she attacked his neck once more, on the opposite time once more, sending another warm rush down his spine and into his groin. Desperate to mount his own offensive, Jakt slid his hands up her thighs and underneath her dress, grabbing her by the hips and grinding her pelvis against his. It was her turn to groan; her breath came sharp and hot against his face.

"Bed," he croaked, burying his face in her silky hair.

"Upstairs," was her reply, pulling away again as if to rise; instead, he grabbed her around the waist with one arm and stood. She gave a little yelp in surprise, wrapping her legs around his waist and clutching at his neck; her alarm turned to laughter as she realized his aim.

Jakt caught a glimpse of Falion's laboratory as he carried his apprentice up the spiral staircase and through to his bedroom, but that familiar, scratchy pressure in his groin kept him from paying too much attention to anything other than the woman wrapped around his body. He threw Agni onto the bed and yanked off her dress, revealing a lithe body and surprisingly full breasts. Pushing up to rest on her elbows, her chin buried in her heaving chest, she looked up at him with yellow irises, searching like those of a cat. Buried in her eyes, he thought he could make out a twinkle of something sinister – an innate cunning or cruelty. Or perhaps he was simply projecting.

They made love twice. The first round was frantic and fast, as though the world would soon end. The second act was softer, more deliberate, as they acquainted themselves better with the intricacies of each other's bodies. What Agni lacked in experience she made up for in exuberance. Her youth was contagious: Jakt felt warmth and life course through his blood every time he entered her. The shadows from the window lengthened as they coupled; by the time they finished again, afternoon had come. Afterwards, aching yet satisfied for the first time in what felt like months, Jakt fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

* * *

11

Agni could not sleep. As the life-affirming throb of intercourse faded from her loins, a nagging anxiety slowly developed in her head. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Laelette's face, her lifeless eyes open and transfixed in an unavoidable gaze. That, coupled with the prospect of facing the people of Morthal – her kinsmen, some of whom she'd known since birth – nearly drove her to tremors. Beside her, Jakt murmured and shifted slightly: she envied his ability to give himself over to slumber after such a traumatic experience.

When she was just a few years younger, Agni had a brief dalliance with a farmboy from Rorikstead. Falion used to send her to run parcels to a colleague of his, who'd settled in the town after the war. She had taken to staying at the inn, where the farmboy worked the stables; one thing led to another, and soon enough, they'd started sneaking off to roll in the straw. He was perhaps a year older than she, but just as inexperienced and eager. His innocence attracted her to him: he saw the world in black and white, good and evil. He had a purity to him that had been stamped out in Agni when she was very young. Inevitably, the boy, eager to prove his mettle, joined the militia; he became another axe-wielding, magic-hating Nordling. His virtue warped into hate, Agni washed her hands of him.

Jakt was nothing like him. As a lover he was generous – he was old enough to know something about himself, had a little more to give. But somehow she also knew that – if he so desired – he could roll over, get out of bed, and leave without a second glance back. He was older, yes, but it wasn't just the years that had taken their toll on his body and soul. If the farmboy had been a white canvas, waiting to be painted over, Jakt was a mosaic, torn apart and reshuffled a hundred times. How many times had he broken, stitched himself back together, only to break once more?

Was he really _Dovahkiin_? Falion had said so. So much of what surrounded the Dragonborn was pithy rumor, especially since his return. She barely knew the myth, but she remembered the reality – the sheer terror of the dragons' return, spreading over a country that was already in the process of tearing itself apart. Nearly a decade had passed and she could still smell the trees in the Drajkmyr burn as the flames inched their way closer to her parents' crannog.

She pushed the thought from her mind and set it to work: how might she convince him to stay? Seducing him had been a gamble, one she hadn't expected to work. Not that she hadn't wanted him – she very much had, in fact, from almost the moment she'd laid eyes on him – but she had figured him for one less susceptible to female persuasion. Morthal had a tendency to make even the most friendly and personable of visitors feel unwelcome, so she understood his desire to leave, but she was increasingly certain that Jakt was the only chance she had to help straighten out these dire happenings of late. Giving herself to him had been quite pleasant, but she suspected it was a short-term solution at best.

Agni rose, suddenly feeling pangs of hunger shoot through her gut. How long had it been since she'd eaten? Slipping into her robe, she traipsed downstairs and into the hearth. Lighting the clay oven with a simple flame spell, she plucked a skillet from the hanging racks, placed it on the stovetop, and began to sift through the cupboard for some sort of nourishment.

Retrieving a couple of potatoes, she placed them on a wooden cutting board, and then yanked her paring knife from its sheath; murmuring a few words of command, she placed a simple manipulation spell on the knife, setting it to pare and chop the potatoes by itself. Falion would disapprove – "frivolous magic," he called such endeavors – but he was not there to scold her, and she hardly felt remorse. She wondered when he might be back: he often spent several days and nights at a time in the swamp. He had promised to return shortly, given the tense atmosphere that hung over Morthal, but he had broken similar promises before. Most likely he would turn up at the last possible moment, too late to be of any significant use. Such was the way of wizards, or so it seemed.

The potatoes cooked slowly; it was mid-afternoon by the time she had finished searing and seasoning them, judging by the long shadows that crept in from the entrance to the greenhouse. Transferring them to a wooden plate, she walked back upstairs to find Jakt, sitting up in bed, rummaging through his trousers. Agni watched, bemused, as he found what he was looking for: a small leather flask. He uncorked it, took a long draw, noticed her standing in the doorway, and offered it to her.

"It's a bit early, don't you think?"

Jakt looked out the window, then back to her, spying the plate in her hand. "Just in time for breakfast."

"You ought not to drink in excess like that. I saw you the other morning – you looked like you'd been dragged through Oblivion."

"You sound like my mother."

"You never knew your mother."

Jakt paused, tilted his heads at her words, smiling slowly but not answering. Agni doubted the strength of her conviction, but only for a second.

"Those for me?"

"Some of them."

She brought the potatoes over and offered the plate; he palmed a few and popped them in his mouth, chewing them slowly, one by one. Agni did the same, except with a fork. She studied him as he ate.

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about older men?"

He didn't look at her as he spoke, between bites. Agni hesitated before she replied.

"My mother died before I started to worry about men at all. As did my dad – both dead in the war."

"Ah," Jakt said, "It takes an orphan to know one, is that it?"

Agni shrugged. "An informed guess, that's all."

He paused again and locked eyes with her for another brief moment. "You're right. She died when I was a child."

"And your father?"

A longer pause this time – Jakt's jaw twitched; his face went hard. Agni regretted asking immediately; the intensity of his gaze made her afraid.

"I'm sorry – I – "

"I killed him."

Agni's face must have registered her shock, for Jakt's face softened a bit; he looked bemused at her reaction.

"It's not like I wanted to – he didn't give me a choice. He was a stubborn man who wouldn't put anything above duty, certainly not the blood of kin."

"Even still – that's fratricide…"

Jakt shrugged, took another drink from his flask. "I scarcely knew him when he died, but if I know one thing about my father, it was this: he got the end he would have wanted. Dying with your sword in your hand, fighting for your convictions and all that."

He shook his head. "This fucking country and its obsession with _death."_ Another swig.

Agni felt like she was witnessing some sort of discussion, an intensely private conversation between two lost souls. It was awkward, to say the least.

From somewhere downstairs there came a noise – some sort of thumping.

"Did you hear that?" Agni asked, grateful for the opportunity to move forward in the conversation.

Jakt looked at her in confusion. "No?"

It sounded again – several times in succession. _A knock._

"You'd better get dressed," Agni said to Jakt, hugging her robe closer as she turned away and slipped downstairs. She tried to catch a glimpse the visitor through the greenhouse windows, but the person at the door was standing too close to the door to identify. She could tell by the wide, stocky frame that it was a man. She felt a pang of fear.

"Jakt!" she made no pretense of subtlety, shouting up the stairs, but she didn't care. He came bounding down a moment later, wearing only his trousers, hands balled into fists. He had no weapon, but his sinewy, rippling torso, resplendent with scar tissue, made a fine enough deterrent. He held a finger to his lips and stepped to the side of the doorway, flattening his back against the wall, then motioned for Agni to answer the portal.

Slowly, cautiously, Agni opened the door. Standing before the threshold was a shortish, stocky Nord, dressed in faded colors, covered with dust. His baby-blue eyes were wide, his nostrils flared like a beast of burden in duress. It was the husband of the woman she'd killed – though she couldn't quite remember his name. He was unarmed.

"Thonnir," Jakt said, stepping out in front of the man, making himself seen and answering her query in the process. Thonnir's eyes flitted to Jakt, then back to Agni.

"You've got to help me," he breathed, his eyes watering, "There's something terribly wrong with my wife's body."

* * *

a/n: This is really starting to balloon. Agni was not really intended to be a POV character, but writing her has been interesting. Will be moving the plot right along next time...


	4. The Sword and the Sorceress

Jakt pulled the hood of his cloak further down over his face as he left the hut. In front of him, Thonnir glanced back and nodded his approval.

"Alva's house is on the far side of town," the stonemason muttered, gesturing to a lonely cottage beyond a few stilted huts. Jakt squinted in the twilight: even from a distance, it looked large for just one person.

Jakt and Agni had spent the last half-hour listening to Thonnir try to come to terms with the fact that his wife had died a vampire. It had not been a pleasant conversation, but at the end of it, Thonnir seemed to accept the truth for what it was. The utter transformation of his mood - from despondency to determination - impressed Jakt. "Alva," he had said, "It had to be Alva. She and Laelette started spending a lot of time together, before Laelette disappeared." Jakt had looked to Agni and nodded; they were beginning to find the threads that tied the mystery together, and Alva seemed to be one of them. Donning a spare cloak of Falion's, he had bid Thonnir lead him to Alva and followed him out the door. Night was beginning to fall; the temperature was dropping, a fact Jakt was keenly aware of, even through the thick cloak.

"Big house for one woman," Jakt said to Thonnir, falling into step beside him. He kept one eye trained on their destination, the other searching the town, wary of those who might recognize him. Thankfully, what with all the commotion that had taken place that day, most of Morthal's occupants seemed too busy to give them a second glance.

"Alva - how can I put it?" Thonnir sucked in his breath, thinking for a moment, before continuing. "Alva's just got a way with people. She convinced some old fool to sell that house to her - charmed it right out from under him. She hosts parties there, time to time; folk say it's quite tasteful, well furnished."

"She sounds like she doesn't quite belong in Morthal." Jakt hadn't meant his words to sting, but Thonnir flashed him a look that hinted they had.

"Sorry."

Thonnir shrugged. His face was grim - no doubt he was preoccupied with the task at hand. He continued, after a moment.

"We're all quite fond of her. Why she took up with Hroggar - so soon after his family, well - no one could figure it out."

"If she's a vampire," Jakt mused, "She'd need someone to watch over her during the day."

"You know an awful lot about vampires…" Thonnir said, clearly uneasy.

"Yeah - met one or two. Not all are monsters, believe it or not. Some are just normal folk, cursed to seek after blood. I knew one who made it a point only to feed on animals - he was kind enough."

Jakt took a deep breath. "But most of them lean into it - embrace their thirst. They don't really have a choice - the thirst consumes them, and only the blood of men or mer really quenches it. Or so they say."

Thonnir shuddered. "Ever have to... kill one?"

Jakt stopped, looked the stonemason in the eye. "Once or twice."

The house grew steadily closer; Thonnir weaved his way around town, trying to keep inconspicuous. At one point, they walked by a trio of guardsmen milling around, deep in conversation; Jakt's heart quickened as they passed, but the guard paid them no mind. The momentary spike in adrenaline was useful - it kept his mind off Agni.

Sleeping with her had been a , it had been a moment of relief, but he hardly needed the distraction, and besides, Agni was so young… _This can really only end one way._

He pushed her out of his brain and followed Thonnir to the front door of Alva's cottage.

It was locked. Thonnir grappled with the door, raised his hand to knock, then reconsidered and turned to Jakt.

"I'll handle this," Jakt replied, crouching so that the handle was at eye level. He would have to use the _Thu'um_.

" _Bex Miiraad,"_ he whispered into the lock; the words felt clumsy leaving his mouth, his command of the tongue rusty from lack of use. He wasn't sure the phrase would work: no such word for "lock" existed in the dragon tongue, as dragons had no use for them. Instead, he used the word for "door," which in the _Thu'um_ took on a much more metaphorical context.

The noise that followed wasn't so much as a _click_ but a horrid wrenching, the sound of metal crunching against itself. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed the noise - miraculously, they hadn't - turned back and gave a gentle push. The door swung inwards, and he got a quick look at the lock mechanism: the command hadn't unlocked the latch as much as destroyed it, leaving behind a twisted lump of metal.

"You're one of the tongued ones?" Thonnir whispered from behind him, a note of surprise in his voice. Jakt nodded reluctantly, not bothering to face the man. Thonnir, it seemed, respected his silence on the matter: he asked no further questions, for which Jakt was grateful.

The entrance hall was welcoming, tastefully decorated with pine furniture and draped in maroon hues. The candles had not yet been lit in their sconces, and yet despite the dim twilight leaking in through the frosted windows, there was an air of warmth to the place. Instead of putting him at ease, it jarred Jakt; something sinister lurked beneath the homey facade, he could feel it.

"Too temperate for a vampire," he muttered, more to himself than to Thonnir, as he walked into the hallway and into the equally elegant dining room.

"What do you mean?"

"They tend to take refuge in cool spaces," Jakt explained; moving forward to stand on the threshold of the dining space, he scanned the room. "They can't abide warmth."

"Does that mean... She isn't…?"

Jakt dashed his hopes with a shake of his head. "Not necessarily. Just means we need to look for somewhere cool - like a wine cellar."

"Not many houses in Morthal with cellars," Thonnir replied, tapping his chin. "Water table's too high. Too much of a pain, dealing with the constant floods."

Jakt frowned; best to trust a stonemason on such matters. Despite his better instinct, he found himself warming to the taciturn, determined man. "Even still - be on the lookout. And keep it quiet."

He turned back and padded into the kitchen, one hand pressing at the hilt of the knife belted to his waist to reassure himself. No surprises there - it was just a normal kitchen, with a cast-iron stove and a fire pit. Fine copper cookware hung from pegs on one wall; it looked expensive.

"What business would a vampire have in Morthal?" Thonnir's hoarse whisper came floating in from the dining room. Jakt didn't answer - he could only speculate. A moment later, Thonnir's voice cut the silence - urgency in his tone.

"Wait - Jakt - come here."

Jakt heeded the stonemason's words, following the sound of his voice to a sitting room on the opposite side of the dining room from the kitchen. He found Thonnir planted on one knee, his right hand peeling back a rich Alik'r rug as his left gestured to what was unmistakably a metal trapdoor.

"That was fast. Good work," Jakt's words, meant to reassure, came out slightly hollow instead. The door wasn't locked; he lifted with one hand, revealing a ladder than descended into inky darkness. The two men looked at each other; it was clear to Jakt that Thonnir was just as reluctant to descend as he.

"We'll need a light." There was a note of apprehension in Thonnir's voice. Jakt nodded in reply and, spying a candelabrum on a nearby dresser, closed the trapdoor, went over and picked it up. Holding the candelabrum to his mouth, he whispered a word in the Tongue - _"Yol!"_ and a tiny jet of flame burst from his open mouth. The shout warmed his tongue and throat as he ignited the candles one by one; Jakt took strange comfort in the heat. _Must be the dragon in me._ His pronunciation was a little better this time.

Ignoring Thonnir's gaping mouth, he gestured to the trapdoor. "After you."

Shaking his head in awe, Thonnir opened the door and descended the ladder. Jakt shone the candelabrum down into the pit as best as he could; the floor of the cellar was quite visible in the soft candlelight, indicating that it was not deep. After waiting a moment, he followed Thonnir down the ladder, going steady and slow as not to drop their source of light.

They found themselves in a small storeroom, decorated with a few barrels. A hefty wine rack dominated one of the walls. The room was lined with smooth, dark grey stone; Jakt went up to the nearest wall and brushed one hand across it. It was completely dry.

"That doesn't make sense," Thonnir whispered. "Look at the cracks between the stones - they're poorly set. The walls ought to be practically weeping."

"Magic," Jakt said in reply, "Must be." Thonnir shook his head again - whether in amazement or disgust this time, Jakt could not tell.

"Is this all there is?" The stonemason asked, changing the subject.

"I can't tell - not enough light." Jakt held the candelabrum high as he surveyed the cellar; the candles were beginning to burn low. Regardless, it looked as though Thonnir's question would be easily answered.

"Wait - over here. A torch."

Jakt watched as Thonnir walked over to an unlit torch fixed to the wall. The stonemason reached out and grabbed it, but failed to lift it out of its bracket.

"Huh. It's stuck pretty good."

Jakt watched, bemused, as Thonnir tried to lift it. Thonnir was shorter than he, but chest was built like a barrel: his impressive forearms bulged and rippled with the effort. Growing flustered, the stonemason tried a new tactic - he gripped the torch in both hands and tried to twist it. Instead of twisting outwards, however, the whole apparatus - the torch in its sconce - turned 90 degrees sideways.

Jakt heard a _click_ sound from somewhere beyond the wall. He felt a faint _whoosh_ of cool air on the back of his head; he turned around and, to his surprise, discovered that the wine rack had swung outward to reveal a hidden passageway.

"Not something you see every day," he whispered to Thonnir, feeling a rush of childlike excitement at the trick door. He tempered his giddiness with a mental reminder of what might be lurking in the cellar. A twist in the passageway prevented him from seeing whatever secrets were hidden behind the fake wall.

One hand clutching the candelabrum, the other gripping the dagger at his belt, Jakt tiptoed down the passageway. He could hear Thonnir shuffling along behind him, his breath ragged and erratic. Jakt had seen many strange and foreboding sights in his thirty-odd years on Mundus, but in that foreboding moment he felt like a fresh-faced dungeon-crawler stepping into his very first ruin.

They rounded the corner to find themselves peering into a low, wide room. Across from them, perpendicular to the wall, sat a distinct wooden box, unmistakably a coffin, perched atop a stone table. The coffin was lined with a row of floor torches on either side, lit with crackling azure flames; the torches bathed the entire room in an eerie blue light, and gave off no warmth - in fact, they seemed to suck it out of the room.

Emboldened, Jakt peeked further around the corner and immediately caught sight of their quarry. A female form, swaddled in a thick robe of crimson, crouched in front of a chair occupied by a man, who looked to be completely naked. The woman's head was buried between the man's legs in a position that was most politely described as compromising; the man sat slumped in the chair, his arms at his sides, limp like dishrags. His head sagged backwards, revealing only a scraggly chin and his wide-open mouth, which emitted periodic low groans. It took Jakt a moment to realize she wasn't pleasuring him.

At his side, Jakt felt Thonnir recoil. He turned to the stonemason; his incredulous expression at the sight reminded Jakt of the provincial attitudes of small towns like Morthal towards such impropriety.

"It's not what you think," Jakt clarified in a whisper, slightly embarrassed to have to do so, "She's feeding."

As if sensing their presence, the woman stopped what she was doing, rose, and turned towards the entranceway from which they had surveyed the bizarre scene. Jakt got a good long look at her face. She had chestnut-colored skin, spotless and smooth, dark for a Nord's; a pair of magnificent cheekbones protruded high and wide from either cheek, lending her a haughty air. Her long, silky hair was braided at the temples to keep it off her face, exposing her delicate ears and exquisite brow. Her mouth twisted in an expression of pleasure as her eyes met Jakt's; blood coated a pair of luscious lips, trickling down a softly pointed chin. She brushed one sleeve across her mouth, the crimson ichor absorbed into the color of the fabric; all the while, her unblinking gaze remained glued to Jakt's face. Looking at her, Jakt understood what some of the fuss around town was all about: her beauty was quite captivating.

"Put on your pants, Hroggar," she spoke, her voice dark and sultry like melted Breton chocolate, "We've guests." Wordlessly, Hroggar obeyed, the bleeding wound in his inner thigh disappearing behind his burlap trousers. He stood to join her at her side, his face expressionless.

"Alva, I presume?" Jakt observed, stepping out further into the room. He gathered his cloak tightly about his torso, hoping she would not see his right arm gripping the dagger at his side. "Drinking from the artery - you must be thirsty tonight."

"I've quite the appetite," she said, "I don't know you, stranger - but I recognize your partner." She cocked her head, looking beyond Jakt. "Hail, Thonnir - who is your handsome friend?"

Thonnir walked forward and planted himself at Jakt's left, his slightly-quavering body at odds with his stern expression. "He's come here to stop you, Alva - you'll not enslave another. Hroggar and Laelette will be the last."

Alva through back her head and laughed once, a shrill, otherworldly cackle. "You silly fool. You think Laelette had to be enthralled, like this idiot here? No, she saw the potential - the _power_ for the taking. She turned willingly. You and the rest of these boorish simpletons, you were never enough to hold her attention."

Thonnir recoiled at her words; trying to recapture some of the momentum, Jakt interjected. "Why then that business with Helgi?"

Annoyance flashed across Alva's snide expression. "Laelette was new to the brood - she still felt the envy, for body-warmth. I bade her kill Hroggar's family - they had become a nuisance - but she developed an attachment to the girl, tried to turn her instead of kill her as she was bade."

"Of course she did!" Thonnir choked out, his shoulders shaking - in rage or pain, Jakt could not tell. "Helgi was her niece!"

Alva looked at him for a moment, a curious expression on her face. Then she shrugged. "Blood is thick - but that is what makes it so delicious."

"Why kill Hroggar's family?" Jakt asked, keeping his voice level in a vain attempt to inject some calm into the tense conversation.

Alva turned back to Jakt, her face breaking into a wide grin. "You think I'll tell you our plans, interloper? Perhaps you think yourself a hero? I've traveled far and wide, and seen men like you in droves. Overgrown children fleeing from the endless toil of an honest life to play at swordsmanship and gallantry."

"Harsh words," Jakt replied, ignoring her diatribe with practiced apathy, "Especially coming from a half-starved waif, who cowers in a cellar and feeds on a drunk."

"You're no more than a vagabond," Alva hissed, "a husk whose blood runs thin and fickle. Thonnir I'll enslave - it shan't be hard - but you're of no use to me. I shall dispose of you like the waste that you are."

"You'll find me difficult to dispose of," Jakt replied, tensing the muscles in his legs, "Creatures more beautiful and terrible have tried."

"We shall see." She turned to her thrall at her side. "Hroggar!"

Hroggar leapt forward like a spark from a fire starter. Unarmed and shirtless, he nevertheless struck an imposing figure: tall and spindly, both arms outstretched, his glowering expression utterly at odds with his deadened, empty eyes. Sheer reflex saved Jakt from the thrall's grasp; he danced sideways, avoiding the frenzied lunge by mere inches. Thonnir was not so fortunate: Jakt heard the jumble of human limbs as the two men collided.

Reasonably confident that Thonnir could extricate himself from Hroggar- after all, the thrall was bare-fisted and barely clothed - he angled himself towards Alva. The twisted expression on her face reeked of malice; he felt a surge of hatred deep in the pit of his stomach. Drawing his dagger, wishing it was flecked with silver, he resolved to finish her quick. _Just hold on, Thonnir…_

He sprung into motion, reversing his grip on his dagger as he charged forward, targeting her lower abdomen for a sequence of rapid, debilitating lacerations. But before he could reach her, she threw her hand forward, hissed some incantation, and caught him in a cone of rose-tinted magical energy.

Jakt recognized the spell immediately from its effects - some twisted variation on an absorption spell. Buried in the protected cavity of his chest, his heart cried out in anguish; his bones turned hollow and weak, his muscles sent into spasms as he lost control of his direction. Stumbling, he looked down to behold a faint red mist emanating from the exposed skin of his hands and forearms. It had the distinct iron smell of blood.

Falling to his flank, fighting the effects of the spell, he looked up to see Alva's mouth open in a cackle, teeth flashing in the dim blue light: he couldn't hear it over the roar in his ears, but her laughter was obvious. He barked out a shout - " _Fus!" -_ in her direction. It was weak and formless, but enough to throw off her concentration, and she lost the spell.

The pain subsided, but its memory lingered in his muscles; wobbly and disoriented, Jakt threw himself towards the vampire in a desperate tackle. Grabbing her about the waist, he bowled her over, ignoring her shriek. Pinning her struggling form to the ground with his legs, strength fast returning to his limbs, he raised his knife-arm to strike - only to realize it was empty. _Must have dropped it - didn't even notice - Gods damn it…_

Suddenly he felt a jagged pain in his side that stilled his breath. He looked down to find Alva's hand buried in his belly, her fingernails piercing his shirt and his skin: somehow she'd wormed one of her arms free. For a split second he met her gaze, her expression one of triump mixed with malice. Quicker than lightning, she raked her nails up and across his chest. White-hot agony streaked across his abdomen; he recoiled automatically, falling backwards onto his rear and clutching at the fresh wound.

She scrabbled out from under him and righted herself. Jakt got a quick look at her hands; somehow, the tips of her fingernails had elongated into curved, sinister claws, not unlike those of a hagraven. Looking at her form, he realized it wasn't just her hands that had changed: her entire shape had morphed somewhat. The curvature of her body had become suddenly pointed and muscular, and there was a feral, animalistic quality to her facial features that had been absent mere moments before. With her scrunched up nose, elongated ears and sunken, yellow eyes, her facial features had become disturbingly batlike. The jagged fingernails on one of her hands dribbled with crimson, as if they'd been dipped in red paint. His stomach clenched at the gruesome sight, sending his torn flesh into a cacophony of pain.

Jakt forced himself upright, ignoring the burning ache in his midriff. Alva raised her hand once more, but before she could utter another incantation, he hit her with another shout - a blast of unrelenting force, more powerful than he'd intended. Lifted off her feet, she careened backwards, smacking into the wall and bouncing off with a pained cry.

Momentarily safe, Jakt scoured the room for his dagger, spying it where it lay on the floor some few feet away: he loped towards it, adrenaline coursing through his veins, helping him to ignore his increasingly sticky shirt as it soaked up his lifeblood. As he bent down to retrieve the blade, he looked back to Alva; she was sprawled out on the ground, her leg twisted awkwardly underneath her, stirring but still very much flattened by his shout.

"Jakt!"

Thonnir's urgent shout, coming from the other side of the room, stole Jakt's attention away from the vampire. Thonnir lay struggling on his back, Hroggar atop him, both of them with their hands on Thonnir's axe. Blood was everywhere: judging by the gash in the lumber-man's exposed stomach, it was Hroggar's. The wound was wide and deep, and looked to be leaking blood by the pint. Jakt had seen plenty such wounds before, and it was remarkable that the man was still conscious, let alone fighting with such ferocity.

Not wanting to give Alva any more time to recover, Jakt did the only thing he could think to do in that moment: pausing only to flip his dagger in his hand to grasp it by either side of the blade, he pumped his arm once, hurling the weapon towards the thrall. It was a bit too long to serve as an effective throwing knife, but the distance was short and the dagger well-balanced. He watched only long enough to see the blade bury itself in Hroggar's neck, behind his jaw, before turning back to Alva.

The vampire had dragged herself up to a sitting position, leaning against the wall, clutching at her twisted leg with a pained expression on her face. Perhaps due to her injury, her features had reverted somewhat to a more human form, but Jakt did not let sympathy soften his heart. Seeing him approach, she raised a feeble hand and began to slur her way through another spell, but he was too quick for her. With a well-placed kick he shattered several of her fingers, sending her arm careening out wide to clack painfully against the wall. He didn't even give her a chance to cry out, aiming another swift kick into her stomach; she doubled over with an anguished sob.

"Forgot what pain feels like?" he growled at her, kneeling beside her and taking her by the neck so he could slam her back against the wall. Moisture rimmed her yellowed eyes as her pupils widened from catlike slits to those of a woman's. "Forgot how it feels to be among the living?"

"How - What are you?" she managed to choke out.

"Just another empty husk - like you," he spat her words back in her face, feeling no small satisfaction at doing so.

"You can't hide from us," she replied, blinking away tears, "My brood - they'll feast on you like cattle. Iust like the rest - "

Her words warped into a keening cry as he pushed his knee into her wounded leg. He kept the pressure on for but a short moment, but it was enough to send her body into spasms.

"Where are they?"

Alva shook her head; in reply, Jakt pressed her leg once more. Her cry was weaker this time: whatever fight left in her was fast evaporating. He felt a presence beside him and looked up to see Thonnir, bloody and shaken. Something in the stonemason's face - a flash of compassion at the sight of the broken vampire - told Jakt he would be of little use in this interrogation. He turned back to Alva.

"Tell me where your brood has made its lair." His words were quieter now, softer in tone.

She met his eyes again and spoke once more, a note of pleading in her voice. "Kill me quickly, interloper - I care not. But I cannot return there. He will know I have failed him, and he will send her to claim my soul."

"Him?" Jakt recoiled, taken aback by this influx of new information, "Her? Who are you talking about?"

Her chest shook as she laughed; he caught a quick glimpse of her elongated canines, still flecked with blood from her earlier feeding. "My master - one of the ancient ones. At this very moment those of my blood flock to him: he is poised to deliver them from the _terror_ of your kind. And at his side is one even more ancient - a spirit that has bound herself to his will."

"Kelpie," Jakt mused, more to himself than aloud.

"Yes. And before them you are _nothing_ ," Alva spat out her words, flecks of her spittle hitting him in the face. His manner calm, he reached up with Falion's robe to wipe them off before continuing.

"Who is your master?"

She looked up at him defiantly, a wicked smile spreading over her tear-stained face. Jakt knelt into her leg once more, turning her grin into a grimace. He increased the pressure, twisting his knee and scraping his kneecap across her shattered leg. Her stoic mask melted away, replaced by pure agony; an anguished wail poured forth, the noise filling every inch of her makeshift lair.

"His _NAME!"_

 **"** _Morvarth_!" she screamed, tears pouring down her cheeks, "Morvarth Piquine!"

Jakt released her leg and stood. Alva let a long, rattling sigh of relief and collapsed forward, trying to cradle her leg, still sobbing quietly. He ignored her for a moment, trying to place the name: there was something vaguely familiar about it, but he could not begin to fathom where he might have heard it. He decided to focus on the more pressing threat.

"Kelpie - What is it? How do I kill it?"

"Every bit the mercenary," Alva wheezed, "' _How do I kill it._ ' The bottom line is all that matters to you." She spat again, at his feet. Jakt had the urge to kick her; he refhsed it. His battle-fever was starting to wear off, the strange and somber mood that always followed such acts of violence beginning to set in.

"No mortal can kill a kelpie," Alva continued, as if scolding him now, "She is not of Tamriel - of this plane."

"Neither am I."

"We'll see," the vampire growled. Slipping into a crouch, a dagger appeared in her hand, seemingly drawn from nowhere. Thonnir gave a shout as she lunged towards Jakt, but her clumsy attack was easy to anticipate, and Jakt simply stepped backwards out of her range. Her broken leg buckled under her weight, and with a cry she slumped to the ground, resting on one side. Prepared to retaliate with a smug sentence, Jakt's choice words died in his throat as she turned the dagger on herself.

A red arc appeared on her neck as she drew the blade across it.

Gagging, spitting up blood, she dropped her weapon as her hands reflexively went to her throat; it clattered on the smooth stone floor. Thonnir rushed forward, coming to her aid, placing his hands on her neck to try and stem the bleeding. Jakt hung back, watching the woman thrash as the stonemason tried in vain to stanch her self-inflicted wound, but as Alva's life - or rather, undeath - ebbed, he could not help but feel a beat of sympathy for her.

"It's deep," Thonnir said, desperation in his tone, looking back to Jakt. Jakt looked down, reluctant to meet the well-intentioned stonemason's eyes: in doing so, he spotted Alva's dagger, glinting with a telltale manner in the flickering blue light. Bending down to retrieve it, he recognized the curious shine: it was forged of a glassy dark metal, folded many times to give it a characteristic wavy appearance, with an ashen sheen and an impossibly sharp blade. _Ebony._ He wiped Alva's blood from the blade with Falion's robe and tucked the dagger into his belt.

"Jakt!"

"Let her die, Thonnir," he said, his voice tired, "It's what she wants. She'll not help us in life anyways, and I'd wager Hroggar won't either." It was an unnecessary query - one look in the direction of the lumberman's crumpled form, slumped in a pool of blood, told him all he needed to know.

He turned back to Thonnir and watched the stonemason stand. His tunic was stained red with blood. So too were his hands: he held them out in front of him, palms downward, looking at them with a look of supreme discomfort.

"What is it?"

"Her blood," he said, a tremor in his speech, "It's so… cold."

"Come, friend," Jakt said, placing a hand on Thonnir's shoulder; he was quavering, ever so slightly. "Let's take a look around and then leave this place."

* * *

Agni paced back and forth, trying not to think too hard about the intimacy she'd just shared with a man whose soul was - at _least_ \- part dragon. Through the windows of the wizard's hut she could see the last traces of dusk as the sun slipped below the thick swamp canopy that served as Morthal's horizon.

Fatigue pawed at her body, not just from lack of sleep: healing Jakt's wound had taken a hefty chunk out of her stamina. The School of Restoration had never held much interest for her, and though she knew a few spells, she rarely found the time or need to practice them. She longed to sink into her bed and reclaim that time spent lovemaking instead of sleeping, but her mind was too agitated: misery and excitement swirled around in her brain, a dangerous cocktail of confused emotions.

Her stomach gave a low growl, and she suddenly felt quite famished. Deciding to address this most basic of needs, she walked into the kitchen area and delved into a cupboard to retrieve her most valuable secret: her stash of sweets. She chose a bar of chocolate, which she'd bought a few months back from a roaming Khajiit and had been saving for a dire circumstance. She bit into the treat, its heavenly taste hitting her tongue and cascading down her throat; she felt a bit better.

"Sugar is a sorceress's best friend," came a voice from behind her. With a startled yelp, Agni spun about, nearly dropping her chocolate. In the middle of the kitchen stood a robed figure, a petite woman by her shape, shorter than Agni. Her robes, although stained by travel, looked quite luxurious: a gorgeous dark blue, lined with fur and embroidered with pale gold, they fell three-quarters of the way down her legs, revealing a pair of heeled leather boots.

She removed her hood to reveal a heart-shaped face and long hair that shimmered somewhere between red and gold. She had yellow irises that, when combined with her smirk, seemed to perpetually mock; her soft cheeks, utterly at odds with her jutting chin, were painted with freckles that had begun to fade. Her pale, freckled skin and red hair suggested she was of Breton heritage; while her age was difficult to determine, but her beauty was not.

"Who are you?" Agni asked, blinking rapidly. She had a million questions, but the stranger's identity seemed the first thing to determine. This did not stop her from taking another bite of chocolate.

"A friend," the woman said cryptically, "and a co-conspirator." Her voice was deceptively low, and a bit husky; it added to her allure.

"How'd you get in here? I didn't hear the door."

The woman paused, turned back towards the door in the hall, and made a curious _'hmm'_ sound, before answering.

"Teleport spell. Quite simple, actually."

Agni nearly fell over at this revelation. Whoever she was, she must be quite the accomplished spellcaster to have teleported without leaving any discernable magical trace - or noise, for that matter. That was not to mention the wards that Falion had placed on his home.

"How did you get past the protection weave that Falion - "

"Falion," she interrupted, her amused smile widening, "Is an old friend. Or perhaps I should say colleague. I know his work well, and thus it was easy to bypass."

"How?" Agni was still too stunned to ask much else. Besides Falion, she'd never even met another mage before, let alone a magic-user who was a woman.

"At another time I shall reveal it to you, perhaps" she said, waving her hand to dismiss the subject. "Right now I've a pressing matter to deal with, and you're the only one in this Gods-forsaken hovel with the brains to help me."

"What about Falion?"

The sorceress's brow furrowed as she scrunched up her lips. "He's not responding to any of my hails. As usual, he's chosen the worst possible way to go traipsing off into that stupid bog he loves so much. That place is so magically saturated one can barely get off a simple spell without causing a tree to polymorph into a mudcrab, let alone detect a man." She shuddered at the thought.

"What do you need my help for?" Agni asked, running her fingers through her hair, something her mother used to do whenever she was frustrated.

"You've done well so far," the red-haired woman said, cocking her head, "But I hadn't anticipated the fire at the inn. It seems Morthal has turned against our mutual friend faster than I thought it would."

It took Agni a moment to realize of what she spoke. "You're a friend of Jakt's?"

"In a manner of speaking," she replied, "We've known each other quite a long time. I've been following his movements for a while; I know you've been… helping him."

Agni blushed at the suggestion in her pause; she couldn't help it.

"Yes… you are his type," the woman went on in a musing tone, looking Agni up and down. "Pretty, driven, sharp... Or at least I'm assuming so, else why would Falion waste any time on you?"

"I don't see what _that_ has to do - "

She waved her hand once more. "Of course. I overstepped, my apologies. Jakt is a creature of impulses - every bit a male, and a son of Skyrim at that."

"How do you know about that? Were you… watching us?" Her cheeks flushed at the prospect. "Why not just talk to him yourself, why all the antics?"

The woman paused, arching an eyebrow; she seemed to be deciding how much (or how little) she wanted to reveal. After a moment, she spoke once more.

"Jakt and I," she began, her words slow and deliberate, "We are… you see, he's a bit cross with me right now. Rightly so, perhaps. We... seek the same goal, but our methods differ, and I'm afraid he'll not listen to me. I need your help to make sure he does the right thing."

"What goals are those?" Agni crossed her arms, hoping the stern gesture might help her regain some control of the conversation.

"You've come this far with Jakt - thus you have some inkling of what stalks the swamps, girl. I'll not waste a backward glance at this mudhole you call a village, but there are dark and dangerous magics afoot here, even for the Drajkmyr."

She paused again. "And as for your tryst with Jakt… It was a simple guess. Your reaction told me all I needed to know."

Agni felt her face go hot once more, but she ignored it this time. "Are you from Winterhold then? What interest does the College have in this matter?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "I'm not here on behalf of the College," she said, not bothering to otherwise confirm, much less deny Agni's notion. "Simply consider me a concerned party."

It would be an understatement to say that this strange sorceress's story did not add up - Agni had hardly heard enough to gauge it! Yet there was a radiance to the red-haired witch, an electric aura that made Agni want to work with her, to help her; she wondered if it was a particular charm she had cast on herself. She certainly had a flair for the dramatic - something that Falion most definitely lacked. Against her better nature, Agni found herself willing to acquiesce to her.

"Alright," she conceded, "I'll help you. But first, you must tell me your name."

The woman smirked. "Very well - Lysana is my name. And yours?"

"Agni. Though I suspect you already knew."

"I'll admit I do. Falion speaks highly of you, although I imagine he'd never tell you so himself."

Once again, Agni tried not to blush. Lysana was right - Falion was sparing in his praise. It was difficult not to resent him for it - but perhaps she ought to more. Perhaps she deserved it.

"What do you ask of me?"

"Ah. I'm glad you asked." Lysana stretched out both her arms, palms upward, and paused; her face went taught, suggesting she was in the throes of nonverbal spellcasting. Not a moment later, a long, narrow form appeared, stretched across both her hands, wrapped in scuffed dark leather. It was Jakt's sword.

Agni's mouth dropped open. "What? How did you - "

"A simple spell of recall," Lysana clarified, "A warp or a teleport would leave too much of a trace, not to mention make a scene. Not that the Jarl would have anyone capable of tracing, excepting your erstwhile Master of course, but caution is key when stealing from the ruling classes, you understand."

Agni had never heard of such magic. "Spell of recall?"

Lysana cleared her throat. "Similar in concept to a teleport, but in reverse. Instead of sending someone or something to a specific location, one 'recalls' said object or person to one's location."

Agni shrugged off her momentary stunned stupor and forced her mind to start turning. "Wouldn't that require some preliminary spellcasting - some magical hold on the object to even work?"

Lysana smiled craftily. "Ah - you _are_ clever. Yes, it requires two aspects - one, a simple _geis_ , a variation on a curse or vow; and two, anticipation. Something, I am sad to say, that many of us with magical abilities are strikingly incapable of."

"So you placed a _geis_ on Jakt's sword?" Agni was familiar with the concept: a sort of unbreakable magical compulsion, usually cast on a person to compel them to honor a contract - sometimes willingly, but often without their consent. Falion, ever the proponent of neutrality, disliked such infringements on free will, a conception that Agni was not sure she shared. Life, as she was rapidly coming to understand, was too chaotic for such a simplistic worldview.

"A variation on a _geis,"_ Lysana corrected, "but yes. As I mentioned, Jakt and I have known each other for a long time."

She walked over to the island in the center of the kitchen; grasping one hand around the hilt, she drew it forth from its scabbard. With a simple word of command she cleared the island of the various cooking implements that rested upon it, sending them floating through the air to neatly stack themselves in the granite washbasin. Gingerly she placed the naked blade atop the table, took a step back, turned to Agni and made a sweeping gesture with one hand towards the weapon.

Haltingly, Agni stepped forward to inspect it, placing what was left of her chocolate in her robe. She knew little of smithing or swordsmanship, but even she could tell the weapon was a work of a supreme craftsman. The sword was beautiful in its simplicity: the guard was an austere cross, the hilt wrapped in shiny black leather; the pommel was little more than a diamond-shaped hunk of iron. A small sapphire was set in the center of the crossguard. The straight, tapered blade stretched nearly a yard, longer than most of the arming swords occasionally brandished by Morthal's guard, yet not quite so long as the greatsword carried proudly by Captain Gorm. A blood trough, beginning about eight inches from the hilt, ran the length of the blade, ending two inches from the point. There was a faint blue hue to the steel that Agni found curious, but not so curious as the Nordic runestones engraved in faint silver on the base of the blade, stretching from the hilt just up to the trough.

"Quite something, isn't it?" Lysana commented; there was a strange mixture of reverence and resentment in her tone. "Crafted by Eorlund Grey-Mane at the Skyforge in Whiterun. That explains the hue of the blade, its susceptibility to enchantments, and its unnatural sharpness."

Agni had heard of the Skyforge - what Nordic youth hadn't? Skyforge Steel weapons were highly prized - and extremely rare. "How did Jakt come to possess it?"

"It was gifted to him, back when the hearts of Skyrim were more... grateful." A trace of spite drifted into Lysana's voice. Agni turned towards the sorceress to try to read her expression, but her face was neutral, almost blank. Agni decided the meaning behind her words was best left alone.

"What do the runes say?"

Lysana grinned, her mood inexplicably lifted. "Ah yes. _Aegunvarde._ It's Nordic, quite ancient."

"What does it mean?"

"It doesn't translate well to Imperial common. Jakt found it in some book and liked the sound of it - best you ask him what it means." There was no end to Lysana's cryptic tendency, it seemed - it was even worse than Jakt's. Agni couldn't help but wonder if the two had ever coupled.

"Can you feel the enchantment?" Lysana said, not giving Agni a chance to continue her line of query. At her prompt, Agni placed her fingertips on the blade. It was warm to the touch, but faintly so; Agni felt as though she had put her fingers to the wick of a lit candle that had burnt low, was about to flicker its last.

"Yes," she replied after a moment, "But only just. A flame enchantment?"

"Correct again," Lysana nodded and smiled; Agni felt a rush of pleasure at her praise. "I need you to top it off, as you say."

"What?"

"It's nearly worn down - time to recharge the enchantment."

Agni voiced her confusion. "Why do you need me? Why not do so yourself?"

Lysana cocked her head, a gesture she seemed inordinately fond of. "Why indeed? _Think_ , girl."

Agni obliged her, gathering her thoughts. She knew a little of the art of enchantment, and had performed several such recharges on Falion's collection of staves, at his urging. She had even enchanted a staff of her own once; although weak, she had been amazed at the way it responded to her touch, as opposed to Falion's. Likewise, Falion had demonstrated the opposite: he was capable of far more with his enchanted staves than was she. What had he said to her in that moment? It had not been that long ago…

"Only the mage that initially placed the enchantment can hope to rekindle it to its full potential," She recited his words from memory. "But why…?"

A slow, crafty smile spread across Lysana's beautiful features, and Agni suddenly understood.

"You placed the enchantment. You don't want Jakt to know you were involved."

"Right again," the sorceress laughed aloud. Agni felt another rush of pride. Lysana had a point: Falion never voiced his appreciation for such deductions; he much preferred to lecture her. "Ready to do it?"

"I don't have a soul gem," Agni realized; she could always nab one from Falion, but he was too meticulous not to notice.

"Not a problem," Lysana said, reaching into her robe to produce a familiar hunk of pinkish-purple stone. It was larger than most of the soul gems Agni had ever seen. "Have at it."

Lysana looked on as Agni placed the soul gem on the table next to the sword. Recharging an enchantment was a simple magical procedure, one she had done a number of times. Her confidence high, she closed her eyes, raised both hands and began the incantation. The first step was to make an incision in the magical weave that trapped the soul in the corporeal prison of the gem. Then, using her body as a vessel through which to shape and direct the soul into the weapon, she began to usher the newly-freed soul to its destination.

As the magical essence of the soul passed through her fingertips, she got a whiff of its size and might. It was considerably larger than any soul she'd manipulated: surprised, she felt some of it escape the spell, drifting away into the ether. Quickly composing herself, she tightened her command over it with a few choice arcane utterings.

The transfer continued for several minutes, until Agni began to feel a prickle of resistance from Aegunvarde. The twinge quickly became a surge, thus indicating to her the sword could accept no more of the soul's essence. At a bit of a loss, she tried directing the remainder of the soul back into the soul gem, but the process of puncturing the gem was not a reversible one. Out of options, she separated her hands and spoke a final word of command, releasing the soul from the spell and letting what was left of it drift away into the air, presumably to rejoin the cycle of magicka as it flowed through the planes.

"Not bad," Lysana murmured from her right. Agni opened her eyes to examine her handiwork.

Aegunvarde pulsed with energy. Tendrils of red magicka licked their way up the blade; she could feel the heat rolling off the sword in waves. Lysana picked it up gingerly by the hilt and returned it to its sheath. She offered it to Agni.

"Very well done," Lysana congratulated Agni once more as she received the weapon. "Not your first time, was it?"

Agni shook her head, smiling gratefully. A sudden bout of exhaustion made her waver: the spell had been more difficult to cast than she'd anticipated. Clutching the sword with one hand, she withdrew her chocolate from her robe with the other. Blushing slightly, reminding herself of the etiquette her mother had tried to instill in her, she offered some to Lysana. The older sorceress raised her eyebrows in surprise, but received it gratefully, breaking off a piece of the bar and biting into it with a surprisingly girlish giggle. Agni felt a rush of warmth in her stomach, and not from the chocolate.

"What now?"

"He'll soon return here, I imagine," Lysana reached up to replace her hood; pulled low over her face, it shrouded her in shadow, amplifying her mysterious air. "And I must be gone."

"Wait - "

"Chin up, girl! We shall meet again - I know it to be true." With those encouraging words, Lysana uttered a magical phrase and disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving Agni alone in the kitchen.

Disappointment prickled at Agni's heart. The many questions she had longed to ask of Lysana swirled in her head. She felt a pang in her heart at the realization that this mysterious sorceress had probably taught her more in an hour - or less! - than Falion often did in a tenday.

Swaddling Aegunvarde in her arms, she walked back into the den and sat on the shabby sofa next to the bookcase, from which she could spy the front door in the entrance hall. Though it was hardly a comfy perch, Agni felt herself beginning to drift off almost immediately. She didn't try to fight it: instead, she nestled into the small couch, tucking her feet into her robes and letting the warmth radiating from the enchanted sword wash over her.

* * *

Agni awoke to a savage knock at the door. Startled and groggy, with no sense of how much time had passed, she raised herself to a sitting position with some effort. After a day that had seemed to stretch on for an eternity, darkness had finally fallen, and the magical candles that Falion used to light the cottage at night had ignited themselves, bathing the room in soft blue light.

The knocking continued, a frantic pounding at the heavy wood that struck a cord of apprehension in the young mage. She leaned Aegunvarde against the nearby bookcase and rose from the couch, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the door, mentally preparing a few defensive spells all the while.

Agni undid the latch and cracked the door open hesitantly; before she could determine the visitor, whoever it was shoved it all the way open and barged in. It was Jakt, a look of singular determination etched into his face; Agni got a quick look at his torso, saw his ripped shirt, red with blood, and reached out in a panic, but he pushed past her outstretched hand. Thonnir followed close behind him: in contrast to Jakt, the stonemason's features were frozen in a state of distress: his eyes wide, mouth quivering, his brow lined and furrowed.

"What in the Gods - what happened? " she asked in consternation, closing the door behind the erstwhile duo and locking it fast. Jakt strode over to the nearest sofa, fumbled with the clasp on his thick cloak before throwing it to the ground, and lifted his tattered shirt off his body to reveal a curious wound on his abdomen. Agni crossed the room, past Thonnir, who had lowered himself into a chair in the corner, and approached Jakt to see what she could do to help him.

Reluctantly ignoring Jakt's wiry, quite splendid musculature, she took a long hard look at the wound: at first glance, it looked as though he'd been mauled by some clawed beast. Three arcing cuts traced their way up across his abdomen to his chest. She followed them to their source: three identical puncture wounds to the left of his stomach. They looked shallow, but recent, for they were still bleeding. Jakt had withdrawn a red glass vial from the small knapsack at his belt. He uncorked it with his mouth and held it up to his nose, scrunching up his face as he sniffed at it.

"What did that to you?" she asked, gingerly placing a hand on his wound and looking up into his eyes.

"Alva. She was a Vampire," came his matter-of-fact reply, "What does this smell like to you?" He held the vial up to her nose.

Agni breathed it in, the familiar musk of swamp fungal pod mixed with blisterwort filling her nostrils. She was a poor alchemist, but even she could identify ingredients commonly found in the Drajkmyr and used to brew elixirs of restoration.

"A health potion of some kind," she began. Nodding, he took the potion and placed it to his lips.

"Jakt - wait - "

Before she could finish her plea, he had drowned half the potion. Baring his teeth at what she could only assume was the vile taste, he poured the other half over his wounded torso.

"That was foolhardy," she admonished him, "Where in Oblivion did you find that?"

"She was using them to heal her thrall after she fed," Jakt explained, gently placing his fingertips on his wound, "to make sure he didn't turn." Sure enough, the wound began to fizzle and warp; he grunted as his muscles and skin began to knit themselves back together. Agni breathed a sigh of relief.

"Even still, you shouldn't go around drinking strange potions!"

"I'm fine. Go see to him," Jakt said, reaching her around with one arm to place a hand at the small of her back and angle her towards Thonnir. A wave of excitement at his touch extinguished the frustration she still felt at him, and she found herself nodding along to his prompt.

Thonnir too was bloodied, but the red stains on his clothing didn't look to be his, for she could see no discernible trace of any wound on his body. Judging by his expression, however, it seemed he might be hurting beneath the skin. He sat in a chair, his hands held out in front of him, staring past them, into the floor. His hands shook slightly, and his tormented expression had changed little since he had entered.

Agni didn't know him well, only by reputation. Even still, she knew he was well-liked around town: folk spoke of him as quiet, a little gruff, but hard-working and genuine, a gentle father whose vices did not include drink. A tide of empathy for the man washed over her: after all, just that morning he'd not only lost his wife, but discovered the terrible secret she'd hid from him, one she'd taken to the grave. Guilt gripped at her heart with clawed talons at the thought of Laelette's lifeless expression, her head still smoking. It was a sight Agni would not soon forget.

"Thonnir," she asked, pushing away her own feelings and kneeling beside him, "Are you alright? What happened?"

"Hroggar," he replied after a moment; tears sprung up in his eyes as he choked out the word. "I - he attacked and I - " He shook his head, swallowed and wiped at his eyes.

"You can tell me," she said, in her best soothing voice.

"He wasn't himself. He was - well, Alva had made her his... thrall. And when he came at me - he was more like a bear than a man." He paused again; his tears had returned. Agni said nothing, waiting for him to reply.

"Eventually, I had to... I got him in the stomach - with my axe - had to be a deep cut, because he wouldn't let up. And when I yanked it out, I expected him to fall… but he just… _kept coming_." At that, he sobbed once and buried his face in his hands.

Agni knew little about the process of enthralling, but the prospect that more like Hroggar could be running around Morthal filled her with dread. At a loss for what to say, she reached out and placed a comforting hand on the stonemason's back.

"He was my friend," Thonnir finished with a croak.

"Agni," Jakt's interruption came as a shock; she hadn't noticed him coming to join them. He had found Aegunvarde; he held the sheathed blade with both hands, a comical look on his face that was stuck somewhere between gratitude and puzzlement.

"Oh!" Agni said, her mind racing, still disturbed by Thonnir's words. She worked quickly to concoct a lie, "I got so caught up - sorry, yes, I got your sword back." She ended with a wide smile that she hoped appeared genuine.

"How?"

"Ah… a simple summoning spell," she explained, "While you were out, you know, I thought I'd make myself useful - it was quite easily, actually. The Jarl has little in the way of magical protection in her longhouse- I was able to probe the armory there until I found it, then it was only a matter of summoning it." She chuckled. "I can only imagine the look on the faces of any guardsmen present as it disappeared." That much was true.

" Only wish I'd thought of it sooner," she continued when Jakt did not immediately reply, "sounds like you could have used it."

The mercenary narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. " _And_ you recharged the enchantment?"

Agni shrugged. "Like I said, I had some time on my hands, and I thought it'd make a good chance to practice some enchanting." She straightened up, gave Thonnir a quick rub on the shoulder, and walked over to Jakt. "You know, I thought you'd be more grateful."

At her barb, Jakt's manner immediately changed: a sheepish grin crested over his face, replacing his suspicious expression. "Sorry. You're right - and I am. Thank you. I was just going to shout my way in there and steal it back. Your way was much cleaner."

Agni let out an impatient snort - quite a convincing one, in her opinion - but instead of taking the opportunity to change the subject, she pressed her luck.

"While I recharged it, I managed to translate the runes - _Aegunvarde_. Pretty name for a sword, but wouldn't something like, I don't know, 'Flametongue,' or 'Dragonspike' suit it better? I thought it was in vogue for a warrior like yourself to name his weapon something... _intimidating_ , yes?" Though her words were partly made in jest, her curiosity was genuine.

Jakt's raised his eyebrows. "I'm surprised you could read it," he said slowly as his smile disappeared. Agni cursed inwardly, realizing she'd flown too close to the sun, arousing his suspicions once again.

"Falion has a few texts on Ancient Nordic runes," she lied casually.

Jakt flipped the sword up to rest against his bare shoulder, freeing up a hand to scratch at his beard. He seemed to be weighing whether or not to go into further detail. Agni waited patiently.

"It means 'Morning Sorrow,'" he finally said, "Though that's a rough translation - Imperial doesn't quite do it justice."

"Morning Sorrow?"

"Maybe someday you'll understand what that means - but only if you're unlucky enough." He cracked another smile, but Agni could tell it wasn't so genuine this time. At that moment, pondering his words, she found herself acutely aware of his gaunt, handsome features, not to mention generously naked torso. Meeting his green orbs with hers, she bit her lip, holding back a frustrated sigh as she looked at him - she couldn't quite tell if his enigmatic manner left her annoyed or aroused.

"Jakt," came Thonnir's voice over her shoulder; she turned to find the man standing, his jaw set like granite, the puffy red skin around his eyes the only proof that he'd been crying. "We have a job needs doing."

Any trace of playfulness left Jakt at the fresh reminder of their quest. "Right. Agni - I need you to look up the name 'Morvarth Piquine.' Falion's a bit of a vampire nut - if this Morvarth is any credible threat, he's bound to have compiled some research."

"How did you know about that?" Agni asked, surprised at Jakt's knowledge of her master's closely-guarded interest - he was reticent to discuss it even with her.

"We have some mutual friends," he said, his tone dismissive: clearly no explanation was forthcoming. Agni could only speculate he meant Lysana, and wondered once more what had transpired between the two of them.

"What about me?" Thonnir asked.

Jakt thought a minute. "You need to warn Jarl Idgrod." Thonnir began to scoff, but Jakt spoke over him. "She'll not listen to either of us, and you know it. Go back and fetch Alva's body if you must. Worse comes to worse, if I don't come back, Morthal has to be prepared for what might come."

"If you don't come back?" His ominous words chilled Agni to the bone.

Wordlessly, Jakt reached into his pockets and withdrew a few pages of ragged paper and handed them to her. They looked to have been ripped out of a book - a journal, judging by the hastily-scrawled script. As Agni examined them, Jakt moved back to the couch; out of the corner of her eye, she spied him replacing his shirt and felt a twinge of disappointment.

Squinting in the soft magelight, it took Agni a moment to realize what she was reading. A passage in the journal described the author meeting a strange, exotic man in the moonlight - Morvarth, perhaps? - and making love to him in a rather disturbing, graphic manner. From there she described following him back to a frozen lake.

"Seems our vampire friend kept a journal," Jakt called from across the room, interrupting her concentration. Thonnir had joined him; the two of them were fumbling with Jakt's scaled jacket.

"She's describing the entrance to his lair," she realized with growing excitement.

"Not very smart of her, to write it down like that," Thonnir grunted as he lifted Jakt's armor over his head and lowered it slowly onto his torso.

Agni read the next sentence aloud. "'When we reached the lake, A beautiful black mare revealed herself to us, materializing out of the ether. She was bigger than any horse I had ever seen, and cantered forward to let my handsome prince run his fingers through her on the maine; her eyes glowed red like rubies,'" she made a face at the description. "Fancied herself a writer, did she?"

"The Kelpie," Jakt explained, ignoring her quip. He'd moved on to his shoulder pauldrons. "Morvarth has some sort of… control over her."

"Another thrall, perhaps?" So this Kelpie _did_ exist - while Agni didn't doubt Jakt's experience with the monster, she was still curious as to why she hadn't seen it herself. Perhaps she only revealed herself to her victims. She read on.

"'The black beauty brayed, and the mist and ice that obscured the lake parted like the petals of my...' oh dear."

She looked over, blushing at Alva's inane metaphor, to see Jakt snickering. Agni tried and failed to suppress her own laughter; it poured forth, an uncontrollable giggle.

"Sounds like the entrance to Morvarth's lair is hidden under that lake," Thonnir said, casting a slightly disapproving glance over the two of them as he spoke.

"Aye," Jakt said, his smile melting away. "And we've been there - Laelette led us there, before she summoned the Kelpie." He gave a quick, worried glance at Thonnir; the man had winced at the mention of his wife's name, but made no further comment, helping with the last strap on Jakt's left pauldron.

Agni watched as Jakt buckled on his gauntlets before collecting Aegunvarde and belting the sword to his waist. His well-traveled armor, with its faded blue scales, scuffed leather straps and dented steel pauldrons, gave him a rugged edge that Agni, perhaps due to their recent intimacy, could appreciate anew. He gathered his dirty-blonde hair behind him and secured it in his signature half-tail with a small bit of ribbon. He began to walk towards the door - but Agni planted herself in front of him.

"You're going to the lair." It wasn't a question - Agni knew the answer. She gazed into his face: there was something in his eyes, some new bounce to his step, but she could not tell what it was. Excitement? Or bloodlust? He didn't answer, except to nod once.

"At least let me come with you!" she said, a note of worry creeping into her words.

"No," he replied firmly, "Morthal needs you, whether it wants you or not. You know that."

Before she could protest further, he took a step forward and, wrapping one arm around her waist, pulled her in for a surprisingly tender, passionate kiss. Agni felt a spark of heat in her loins as their tongues touched; it spread outwards to envelop every bit of her as she sunk deeper into the kiss.

They broke apart, and without another word Jakt was gone, out the door, quickly swallowed by the night. Agni closed the door and turned back, the butterflies in her stomach threatening to escape from her throat, to find Thonnir, face frozen in an expression of surprise.

"Not a word," she said, pointing an accusing finger at the stonemason, trying to keep the corners of her lips from curling upwards. He raised both hands, palms outward in submission, and smiled for what must have been the first time in days.

* * *

a/n: Lysana wasn't even originally meant to appear here, but I thought she might be a good way to explore Agni's character - and it also meant I got to write a bit about magic! Since magic is relatively ill-defined in TES (intentionally, I think), I found it pretty challenging and fun to write about, and I admit I got a bit sidetracked. Anyways, hope you enjoy, please review!


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